


A Rose, Darkly

by thrace



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2168775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrace/pseuds/thrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on Natalie Dormer's comment at Comic Con that she would like to play Batman.  I ran with it.</p><p>In which Margaery is the Tyrell heir, returned to King's Landing after a prolonged absence, and Sansa is a bright young reporter who gets caught up in Margaery's quest to bring justice to the city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It barely registers with Sansa when she first hears the news: billionaire heiress Margaery Tyrell has returned to King’s Landing after being presumed dead for years. It’s running nonstop on the local news, national too, but Sansa is on a deadline and three different sources won’t call her back, leaving her to track them down on foot. By the time she returns to the office, weary and footsore, the return of the city’s favorite daughter is the furthest thing from her mind.

“Stark!” her editor barks from where he’s lurking by her desk. “Where have you been?”

She tries not to snap back in return. “Getting quotes for my article.”

“The one I told you to ignore so you could focus on the job you actually have?” he growls. 

“I’ll have the column you want written on time,” she says, sliding into her computer chair and jiggling the mouse. Her editor continues making disagreeable sounds about how if she wants so badly to leave Lifestyle & Arts to go write _serious news_ she’s free to pack up and leave whenever she wants until Sansa waves a printout under his nose. It’s the promised article on last night’s charity gala for the Children’s Hospital, freshly printed while he was distracted by his own tirade. 

He grumbles. “Fine. But work on your sample articles on your own time.”

She uses two fingers to tick off a tiny salute. “You’re the boss.”

“Oh, and you’re on the Margaery Tyrell story.”

She pauses from pulling out a thick stack of research from her shoulder bag. “What? Why isn’t Walda on it?”

“She’s sick. Some flu, I don’t know. So you’re going to the big party Tyrell’s throwing this weekend. See if you can get an exclusive with her.”

Sansa’s mouth works for a moment, trying to comprehend the scope of this assignment. “Get an exclusive? I probably won’t be able to get within ten feet of her.”

Her editor barely pauses on his way back to his office. “You’re always talking about your investigative skills. Go investigate a way to interview her. Find out where the hell she’s been for five years.” And that’s that.

*

Sansa barely knows anything about Margaery Tyrell, not much more than what’s in her Wikipedia article. All of King’s Landing had been shocked by the Tyrells’ murder; it was the kind of casual violence that wasn’t supposed to happen to the city’s elite. Margaery Tyrell, barely eight years old, had witnessed the whole thing and a long-range photo of a crying little girl in a bloodstained dress being comforted by an anonymous police officer hit all the front pages the next day. For a while, it had inspired a groundswell of support for the police and crime rates had gone down. But the furor faded, memories grew hazy, and gradually crime swelled again within the city. Margaery Tyrell herself hadn’t had much of a public life growing up, seemingly coasting on her family’s money and ultimately leaving the city to attend a prestigious university. She’d disappeared shortly after graduating.

What Sansa knows that no one else does is the name of the faceless police officer in that now-iconic photo. She was just four at the time, but she still remembers her father coming home in the morning while Sansa and Robb were eating breakfast. They were both used to his strange hours and didn’t immediately question why he was only walking in the door at that hour, but Sansa remembers how he’d gone straight into her mother’s arms and sighed into her shoulder. “That poor child,” he’d murmured over and over. Later, when she was in high school, she’d finally figured out that it was her father in the Tyrell photo. He’d been one of the responders to that call and had taken it upon himself to pull a bloodied child from the corpse of her mother and calm her down.

Sansa wonders idly if her father kept in touch with Margaery. He was the kind of officer who checked in on the victims he met on the job, always making a phone call on someone’s behalf or putting in a word for someone to get a job or get out of minor trouble. She’d resented it, growing up, that her father spent so much time helping other people’s children and not as much looking after his own. But as an adult she appreciates the kind of man he is. She wants to be like him, as much as she can without actually becoming a police officer. Her editor is entirely correct; she does want to leave Lifestyle & Arts to work Metro. She wants to report on all the things grinding down King’s Landing, preventing it from becoming the progressive and prosperous city it once was. 

There’s no chance of that tonight, she thinks sourly, adjusting her dress one last time as she steps out of her cab in the driveway of Tyrell Manor. There are gleaming sedans and luxury SUVs lined up all the way back to the road, millions of dollars worth of cars guarding the way to the door. Sansa is too old hat by now to roll her eyes at the sheer amount of money on display but she does wish for the thousandth time she could go back in time and talk to her younger self, so willing to believe being a gossip columnist would be a fun career. 

A man in a dark suit with unsubtle earpiece and cuff mic checks her invitation at the door. She shows her press credentials as well before they let her in. 

Tyrell Manor is stunning on the inside, marble flooring and columns and what she’s sure is antique moulding. About a hundred who’s whos are milling around in the foyer, spilling into the adjoining library and living room. Sansa puts on a bland smile, grabs a flute of champagne, and starts circulating, taking notes in her head. One of her greatest advantages—she has a good memory and doesn’t need to write notes as often. It puts people more at ease not to talk to someone scribbling furiously on a notepad or holding a recorder up to their mouth.

Margaery Tyrell herself is nowhere to be seen. That would be something—being a no-show at your own welcome-back-from-the-dead party. Still, most of the people here are probably only too glad to booze on the Tyrell dime and tell their friends they were invited to _the_ social event of the month. 

Sansa quickly tires of the inane conversation around her; she’s not picking up anything useful anyway. She slips along the edges of the crowd, through the back doors which have been left open to catch the night breeze, and onto the property behind the manor. It’s slightly too warm to be outside so there’s no one to see her descend the broad granite stairs into the extensive gardens. The Tyrells were famous for their gardens once; now, far enough from the house not to be easily seen, they’re overgrown and wild. The landscapers evidently haven’t had time to prune all the way through, just far enough to look nice for the party.

Sansa rather likes the overgrown part. Rose petals brush her arms in a few places and the entire place is heady with their fragrance. Carefully, she takes hold of one and plucks it from its bush. She’s just trying to figure out how to fit it into her clutch without crushing it when she hears a rustling sound. 

It hadn’t occurred to her that it might not be safe out here, not with the security she saw on her way in. But the Tyrell grounds are vast and perhaps they haven’t been as vigilant this far from the house. She fumbles open her clutch to grasp the pepper spray inside while simultaneously backing up the way she came. Her ears are tuned for the slightest noise, eyes scanning for human shapes among the plant life, so her shock is complete and overwhelming when her back bumps into a warm front. She shrieks and somehow manages to twirl one-eighty on her heels while bringing her pepper spray to bear.

A flash of pale skin, a flowing movement, and her arm is redirected to the side. Sansa nearly presses down on the nozzle anyway in the vain hope that the spray might at least drift a little towards her attacker but the firm hand on her arm dissuades her. She blinks, focusing on the face now looking at her with amusement. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she says.

“What are you doing out here?” Margaery Tyrell asks. She releases Sansa’s arm.

Sansa doesn’t even think before automatically riposting. “I could ask you the same thing. It’s not my party.” She blushes. “Sorry. I’m just—on edge. You scared me.”

“No, I’m sorry for startling you,” says Margaery. She glances down, bends gracefully at the knees to retrieve something from the ground. “You dropped this.”

It’s Sansa’s rose. Well, technically Margaery’s. Her blush deepens. “Sorry about that. I just needed to get some fresh air.”

Margaery holds the flower out, not quite smirking. “Why? It’s not your party.”

Sansa takes the rose with what little remains of her dignity. “I’m not really into parties. I mean, I like parties, but not…this kind of party.” She winces, wondering where all her practiced charm has gone. She’s spent so much time carefully cultivating a polite, open work persona for dealing with socialites and bigwigs and it seems to have vanished into the night.

Margaery leans forward slightly, as though divulging a secret. “Me neither.” 

Calmer now, Sansa takes her in as well as she can in the darkness. Her dress is flowing, light green, a narrow but deep neckline in front. A soft-looking white shawl covers her shoulders and dark hair has been gathered in an elaborate bun, leaving little ringlets to escape all around her face. Sansa figures coyness is not the way to go now so she shifts everything to her left hand and holds out her right. “Sansa Stark, _Royal Tribune_.”

Margaery’s eyebrow tics upwards. “A reporter?” Her handshake is soft but Sansa can feel unexpected calluses on her hands, a possible clue to her whereabouts for the past five years.

“A gossip reporter,” Sansa admits. “I’m supposed to be covering the party and trying to get close enough to you for an interview.”

“In that case you’re doing half your job very well tonight,” says Margaery impishly. She holds up the crook of her arm for Sansa to take. 

Sansa stares at it, unsure of what Margaery is offering.

Margaery tilts her head towards the rest of the garden. “Come on. I’ll give you a proper tour and you can ask all the questions your readers are dying to know the answers to.”

Sansa really can’t do anything but go along with it, taking Margaery’s arm and following her down the garden path. They walk silently, passing more rosebushes and an overgrown bit of topiary that might have once been an animal of some sort, until Margaery prompts her. “So, your first question is, ‘Ms. Tyrell, where were you for five years?’” She does a passable impression of an old-timey newscaster’s voice.

Sansa smiles in spite of herself. She hadn’t been expecting to be able to get anywhere near Margaery Tyrell and here she is now, on a private walk, being charmed. “Actually, my first question is why throw a big fancy party if you don’t like them.”

“Ah.” Margaery slows slightly, seeming to actually ponder the question. “Well, it just seems to be the done thing. Return from the dead, reclaim your family’s name and fortune, throw a party. Like re-stamping my claim on everything.”

Sansa definitely hadn’t been expecting honesty either. “Well you’ve certainly done that. And I should know, as a professional party-goer.”

“Yes, about that.” Margaery looks at her, a long, searching look. “You don’t seem particularly enthusiastic about gossip.”

“I’m not. I was young when I picked this career, but I got tired of it pretty quickly. I want to move to the metro desk eventually. I’m working on it.” Sansa tugs slightly on Margaery’s arm. “Now I’m asking, Ms. Tyrell, where were you for the past five years?”

Margaery regards her steadily. “On the record, I was simply traveling. I had a notion to see the world outside of King’s Landing, on my own terms, and I didn’t want to be followed by my name or my money.”

Sansa returns her gaze. “And off the record?”

“I’m afraid off the record answers come after the third date.”

Sansa’s blush returns. It’s not an unknown quantity—there had been some minor scandal when Margaery was spotted with a young woman during her freshman year at university but it had blown over when Margaery seemed not inclined in the least to deny or be embarrassed by it. But it’s another on quite a list of surprises for the night. “Is this the first date?” she asks boldly.

Margaery’s mouth curls up in a real, brilliant smile. “I suppose it is. How can I reach you to ask you out properly?”

Ever so primly, Sansa unsnaps her clutch and pulls out a crisp business card. She slips it into Margaery’s hand. “If you’re ever willing to do a longer interview.” She leaves Margaery on the garden path, navigating back to the house by following the lights. Her editor is going to love her.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa doesn’t really expect Margaery to call—and she doesn’t. Her article goes down a treat with her editor though so at least there’s that, except he now expects her to follow up on it with an even more in-depth article. He wants the scoop on mysterious Margaery Tyrell, who is now living it up at the city’s finest establishments: dinner at high end restaurants, bidding at sparkling charity auctions, even an appearance at The Eyrie and rumors of a ten-thousand-dollar drinks bill for her private back room. Sansa’s editor fumes every time there’s a new picture of Margaery on a gossip site and no competing article from the _Tribune_. 

She placates him by agreeing to attend the annual Police Gala. She neglects to mention that she would have gone anyway, as a favor to her parents whom she hardly ever gets to see. Her brothers Robb and Jon will be there too. She promises to bring back a lot of juicy quotes, pulls on one of three nice dresses she rotates into use for these sorts of work assignments, and gets to the gala early so she can speak to her parents before her father is overwhelmed by handshaking and small talk.

Robb is just inside the door, waiting for her. His suit is nice, but not glaringly expensive, as befits a young ADA. “How’s work?” he asks.

She gives him a withering look.

“The same, then.” They walk to the upper balcony, Robb relating little office anecdotes and cases on the way. 

Ned Stark is engaged in a serious-looking conversation with another officer in duty uniform who scurries away when Ned sees his children approaching. Robb receives a handshake and clap on the back while Sansa gets swept up in a bear hug. She returns it, basking in the childhood feeling of overwhelming safety only her father can provide, even though she stopped believing long ago that he could right all wrongs. “You look lovely tonight,” he says.

She skips over the compliment; he’s seen her in this dress at least twice before and he’s said the same thing every time. “What was that about?” She nods her chin at the retreating officer, who has pulled other junior officers along in his wake.

“Oh, nothing,” says Ned easily, which of course kicks Sansa’s instincts into high gear. She’s stopped from inquiring further by the arrival of her mother, who is elegantly dignified in a floor-length grey silk dress. Ned’s arm goes automatically around her waist. 

“Darling, you need to let me take you dress shopping,” says Catelyn, dropping a kiss onto Sansa’s cheek, then rubbing off the smudge of lipstick it leaves behind.

“I’m good on dresses, mum,” Sansa says, only mildly exasperated. The Starks are a fairly well-off family but she prefers to do things herself; she’ll never be taken seriously at the newspaper if she leans on being the daughter of the chief of organized crime and the dean of King’s Landing Law School. 

Jon finds them and it’s nice for a few minutes to have all the older Starks in one place. Arya would no doubt howl at being lumped in with Bran and Rickon but it’s fair considering she hasn’t graduated high school yet. Jon looks handsome in his dress uniform, a match for Ned but with far fewer ribbons and brass bits. “Interviewing Margaery Tyrell, moving up in the world,” he says, hugging her.

“Hardly,” Sansa says. “And since when do you read the society pages?”

Jon scoffs. “Everyone read that article. Margaery Tyrell hasn’t given any other interviews besides yours.”

Sansa shrugs. “She seemed…private. When we met.”

More scoffing. “As private as someone who dates supermodels can be.”

Sansa doesn’t have an answer for that. So far Margaery is a bundle of contradictions, unwilling to socialize at her own party, but then being seen with a parade of pretty faces in an assortment of pretty cars, planes, and boats. Ned and Catelyn are drawn aside for the usual hobknobbing and Sansa takes the opportunity to pounce on Jon. “What’s going on with dad?” she asks.

His mouth turns down at the corners, a telltale giveaway that he’s about to lie. “Nothing. Not that I know of, anyway.”

She stares at him. She’s not as good as Arya at staring people down—something about her sweet countenance throwing it off—but she can at least look unimpressed and irritated. She steps on Jon’s toe with her heel for good measure.

“Ow!” He gives her such an affronted look it’s as though he’s a babyfaced teenager again, angry with her over some sibling problem or another. “Look, dad didn’t want anyone to worry. He got a weird visitor a few days ago and they’ve tightened up security.”

“Weird? Weird how?” 

“Like a stalker or something. Even I don’t know all the details. It was just some crazy, as far as I know. Hazard of the job.” Jon keeps his feet well clear of hers. “Can I go now or are you going to put the screws to me next?”

She gives him a light shove, albeit with a smile. “Fine. Go away. And tell dad it just makes me worry more when I know he’s lying.” They go separate directions, Sansa down to the ballroom floor and Jon to join their father in talking up the police and how they could be so much more effective with more money. She grows bored quickly, as usual, but she’s racking up some good quotes and working quickly with the photographer sent by the paper. After forty-five minutes she deems it acceptable to leave, kisses her parents goodbye, makes plans with Robb to get drinks next week, and then bustles through the main entrance against the flow of social elite streaming in.

“For a professional party-goer, you’re certainly leaving early,” says Margaery Tyrell, mounting the first steps leading up to the entrance. She looks glamorous but understated in a pale violet knee-length sheath with black accents at the bustline. Diamonds twinkle at her ears and throat and her hair is down in soft waves. Sansa feels a bit dowdy in her plain black dress and matching heels. 

“All work and no play,” Sansa replies. She stands with her hands folded around her clutch, a few steps above Margaery.

“Hasn’t made you dull at all,” says Margaery.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “You don’t get to take a girl on a moonlit walk in your garden, then not call her after she gives you her number,” she says, deigning to walk down the last few steps and brush past Margaery. 

“It might surprise you to learn coming back from the dead is a rather involved affair. I’ve been busy,” says Margaery, but without any defensiveness. Instead she sounds curious, watching Sansa as she moves.

Sansa starts scanning the street for a cab. “That’s fine. I’ll have my people call your people.” 

“No need. I’m right here. We can do that longer interview you were so keen on.” Margaery smiles winningly. “Or has your paper not called my media relations officer every day for a week trying to set something up?”

“What, now?” asks Sansa, glancing around. A few people are staring at them, wondering exactly to whom Margaery Tyrell is speaking. 

“Would you rather later?”

Sansa nearly grits her teeth. She doesn’t like being dictated to, even when it benefits her, but a display of temper never got her anywhere. She responds to Margaery’s smile in kind. “Let me just find a quiet spot.”

“My car is right over there.” Margaery points to a black Bentley with a bored-looking chauffeur standing guard over it.

Sansa figures she should get used to Margaery coming to a conversation with all the answers and makes a _lead on_ gesture. The photogs waiting nearby go absolutely mad when they realize Margaery has turned away and is being followed by a pretty young girl. A few of them know Sansa from working the same beat and call out her name, asking where they’re going. Sansa ignores them and slides into the plush comfort of Margaery’s car, voice recorder already in hand. As soon as the door closes, they’re ensconced in soundproofed privacy and the smell of well-maintained leather. 

“So,” says Margaery, making herself comfortable with her body turned towards Sansa. “What is it you want to know?”

“First of all, why you’re even speaking to me,” says Sansa, not turning on her recorder just yet. “You haven’t given any more interviews, so why start now?”

Again that searching look, suggesting that Margaery is unearthing all her secrets just by looking at her. “Would you believe me if I said I trusted you?”

Sansa frowns, the very image of skepticism.

“You were very fair to me in your first article,” Margaery continues. “And I think it’ll be good to have at least one reporter on my side. Or at least, not actively against me.”

“I’m not here to be your mouthpiece,” Sansa warns her.

“No, I didn’t think you were,” Margaery says with a smile. “But people are going to write about me no matter what. At least this way I can trust the things I say won’t get taken out of context.”

It’s flattering, and Sansa doesn’t know if it’s calculated to be so or if it’s just more of Margaery’s unexpected honesty or some combination of the two. “I won’t guarantee I won’t ask you difficult questions.”

“I won’t guarantee I’ll answer.”

Sansa bites the inside of her lip. The recorder’s red light flicks on and she makes sure that Margaery can see it. “Randyll Tarly is taking Tyrell Enterprises public in a month. How do you feel about that?”

“It’s hard to object to a business decision made because I consciously chose to be absent. I’m fine with it, and I’m very fine with the payout for my shares.” Margaery fires back with a question of her own before Sansa can open her mouth again. “How is your father’s war on organized crime going?”

Sansa blinks. “My father? What does he have to do with anything?”

“Just trying to get a feel for King’s Landing, now that I’m back. Thought I’d take an interest, like my father.”

“My father doesn’t discuss cases with me,” says Sansa, which is only partly true. He won’t discuss ongoing cases, but he’s told her about plenty of old ones and she’s gotten good at reading between the lines of his conversations with Jon and Robb at family dinners when they inevitably turn towards work. 

“Your father seems like one of the few honest men left in this city,” says Margaery. “Please tell him, privately, if he ever needs anything, Tyrell Enterprises will back him, and so will I.”

“You could tell him yourself, you know. That is kind of the purpose of this entire party.”

“Yes, and he could hardly say a bad word surrounded by all his superiors. I wanted your impression,” Margaery says frankly. 

Sansa clicks off her recorder. “Then you could have asked me, instead of pretending as though you wanted to do an interview.”

“I’m asking now.”

Sansa wants to just get out of the car. But she doesn’t, because this is probably the last time she’ll ever be able to give Margaery Tyrell a piece of her mind. “My impression is that this city is dying. My father does the best he can but he’s just managing the symptoms. We need a major upgrade to our public transportation infrastructure, we need more funds for underserved schools, and we need more jobs. If you’d poke your head out from your cliché playboy lifestyle perhaps you’d already know that.” She pauses to breathe. 

Margaery is grinning at her. “Is that all?”

“No. There are also several corrupt judges who need to be forced out of office,” Sansa mutters.

“I’ll get right on that,” says Margaery. Casually, she adds, “Just out of curiosity, which judges?”

Sansa rattles a few off the top of her head, men she’s heard her father and Robb and Jon complaining about but who have thus far been untouchable for lack of evidence. She would love to work on an expose about any one of them.

“Shall we continue the interview then?” Margaery asks, as though they haven’t just had an argument. 

Reluctantly, Sansa turns the recorder back on and gives in to the editor’s voice screaming in the back of her mind. “Who are you wearing?”


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa is woken from a dead sleep by the sharp trilling of her cell phone. She yanks it from its charger, sees it’s Jon calling, and answers with her heart pounding for her father’s safety. “Jon?” 

“You still want to get out of gossip?” he asks.

She screws her eyes closed and falls back against her pillow. “What? Why?”

“Get down to the docks right now. You can thank me later.” The line goes dead.

Swearing to herself, Sansa jams her legs into a pair of jeans, yanks on a t-shirt and a light jacket, and stuffs a digital camera, her notebook, a pen, her phone, and her press credentials in the pockets. The cab ride to the docks is quick at this time of night, the streets nearly deserted. But as she approaches the waterfront she can see red and blue rollers and plenty of bobbing flashlight beams. She shoves some cash at the driver and hurries out of the car, trying to take in the entire scene.

Loading bays to her left, with open trucks half-filled with crates. The lights in that part of the dock are mostly out. There are clusters of men sitting near the police cruisers with their hands and feet in zip ties. At the far end of the docks, a crowd of black around one of the large spotlights for searching the water. Already a few late-night stragglers have gathered to gawk from behind the crime scene tape. Sansa makes a mental note to buy Jon dinner some time and starts jotting down notes. She sees someone whose face is vaguely familiar, an officer of her father’s, and flags him down. Her eyes flash to his nametag. “Hi, Officer Hornwood. Can you tell me what happened here?” She makes sure her press pass is obvious.

Hornwood at least doesn’t seem inclined to get rid of her immediately, but he also hooks his thumbs in his belt and schools his face to passivity. “No comment.”

“Was this an organized crime bust? These men look like they’re smuggling contraband.” She can see crime scene techs pulling things out of the crates in bundles, photographing things, covering everything in fingerprint poweder.

“No comment.”

“Is there a detective on scene who will give a comment?”

Hornwood’s mouth twitches. “I’ll go see.”

Sansa edges along the crime scene tape while Hornwood searches for a detective, trying to get a better look at why the officers have formed a scrum around the spotlight. There’s something on it, forming a vague silhouette. She tries to make out the shape in the sky, but it’s just a general wing-like figure. She startles when someone calls her name.

Petyr Baelish ducks under the tape, smiling at her in that unctuous way of his. Sansa’s never liked him, not since he was first introduced to her as a patrol officer in her then-lieutenant father’s squad. “What brings you to a rough place like this, Sansa?” he asks, standing closer to her than is really necessary.

“I’m a reporter,” she says, wiggling her notepad, as though that makes it obvious. “Can you tell me what happened here?”

“A reporter for the gossip pages, not the crime desk,” says Petyr, taking in her notepad, then trailing his eyes down her arm to her body. 

“I’m working on switching over. And a member of the press is a member of the press.” She swallows the vague revulsion that Petyr always inspires in her and smiles prettily at him. “What do you say? Exclusive? Help me move up at work?” 

He narrows his eyes at her for a moment, but then grins in what he probably thinks is a friendly manner. He’s always done this, acted as though he’s her buddy when he’s just a weird friend of her mum’s who used her to get a job with the police. “I appreciate ambition. All right, ask away.”

She pulls out her phone, starts recording, and points to the spotlight. “What happened there?”

Petyr looks over her shoulder where the officers are cutting heavy chains wrapped around the light. “Someone took the law into their own hands and left Roland Crakehall tied to that light and all his men wrapped up for the police. We’ve caught them with about fifty kilos of contraband. They all swear a mysterious black figure came out of the shadows, subdued them, and generally scared the hell out of them.”

“Mysterious black figure?” Sansa squints, trying to get a better look at the men on the ground. From this distance she can only see they look scuffed up, a few of them bleeding openly from the face. They’re not struggling at all. 

“Someone in a black mask, black cape.” Petyr shakes his head. “Completely insane.”

“What time did this happen?”

Petyr checks his watch. “We received calls about sounds of gunfire approximately fifty minutes ago, just after eleven. First uniforms arrived on scene thirty minutes ago. Our man in black was long gone by then.”

Sansa wants to snark on the twenty-minute response time, but it’s counterproductive and these are the docks, where various smugglers and gangs hold sway. It’s more of a miracle that anyone called the police in the first place. “It was just one man? There must be…” Sansa does a quick headcount. “At least a dozen men sitting there.”

Petyr’s tone turns condescending. “That’s what they claim. Some of them are pretty shaken though, and they are liars by trade, so I’m not inclined to take them at their word.” 

“Do you think I could speak to one of the men you arrested? About the black figure.” She doesn’t quite bat her lashes, but perhaps she should have because Petyr shakes his head.

“Now that, I can’t allow. If you don’t have any more questions, I need to be getting back to work.” He touches her arm, close to her elbow, and smiles with all his teeth. “Come by the station some time. I’m happy to continue working with you as you develop this story.”

“If I have any follow-ups I’ll let you know,” Sansa replies, keeping it as professional as she can. She tries not to shake off her arm and the unpleasant feeling that Petyr left something behind on her. She snaps some pictures, zooming in as far as her camera will go, and asks around the gawkers until she finds someone who lives in the neighborhood and is able to recount what she heard on condition of anonymity. As Sansa times it out she realizes the call to the police just about matches the actual time gunfire first went off and it stopped less than ten minutes later. Ten minutes for one man to disable twelve and leave one of the more notorious mob bosses in King’s Landing trussed up to a spotlight, like a beacon of justice. 

She lingers another ten minutes, trying to get statements from other officers, but everyone is mum. No one feels like opening their mouth about a strange maybe-vigilante and a mobster known for having witnesses killed. Eventually she goes back to her apartment, spreads out her notes by her laptop, and wakes up the Metro editor with her call. 

*

When Sansa drags into work in the morning, venti coffee clutched in her hand, her story on Roland Crakehall is front of the Metro section, above the fold and everything. She wanted front page, but there’s no chance of that while there are still foreign wars and national economic crises going on, so she feels ok with Metro. Baby steps.

“Stark!” her editor bellows as soon as he sees her, which doesn’t surprise her at all. His tirade about moonlighting is short but vicious and then he sends her back to her desk with an assignment to go interview some new fashion designer opening a store on Kingsgate, another in a long line of upscale boutique shops. So she trudges back out, stopping briefly for a double shot of espresso, and takes the tube over to Kingsgate Road and tries not to count the minutes until she can go home, take a bath, and go to sleep. 

The interview is fine, _blah blah innovative design_ , and Sansa is thinking of finding lunch in the area when her cell phone rings. It’s a blocked number, which makes her frown, but she answers it anyway. 

“Ms. Stark, it’s Margaery Tyrell.”

Sansa stops in her tracks and gets jostled for it. Hurriedly, she moves over to the edge of the sidewalk. “Ms. Tyrell. I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again.”

“I wanted to tell you I liked your article.”

“Which one?” Sansa asks, not meaning to be cheeky. She’s not thinking clearly after over twenty-four hours awake.

“The one about me, of course. Or possibly the one about a notorious gangster tied up and delivered to the police like a gift. Quite a scoop.”

“Thank you,” Sansa says graciously. 

“A mysterious masked man fighting crime. I imagine any reporter would love to have that kind of story in their portfolio.”

“A vigilante,” Sansa corrects her. 

“Oh? You don’t agree with his methods?”

“Vigilantism is dangerous. There’s a reason we instituted a police system to protect civilians instead of letting regular people do it themselves.” Sansa can feel the rote words warring with her personal experiences of corruption within the police but she knows better than to give away ammunition against her father by badmouthing his colleagues. It occurs to Sansa then that she’s heard the name “Crakehall” in conjunction with Margaery’s before and the question spills out of her before she can think better of it. “Didn’t Roland Crakehall’s thug murder the man who—” Her mouth clicks shut so abruptly she’s sure Margaery can hear it over the phone. 

“Who murdered my parents. Yes. He was going to testify against Crakehall and he died for it.” Margaery’s voice has gone soft, but cold.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up like that.”

There’s a long pause. “I’ll see you around, Ms. Stark. Don’t stop covering crime stories. You’re good at it.” A click; the line is dead.

Sansa stares at her phone for a few seconds, still mortified at her gaffe. Just because she finds Margaery Tyrell absolutely irritating doesn’t give her the right to open an old wound like that. If the number weren’t blocked she would call back and apologize again, or at least text as sincerely as possible. The contrition evaporates with a text from her editor, reminding her that her article is due at end of business. She stomps back to the tube, all hope for eating lunch away from her desk forgotten.

*

A packet is waiting on her desk in the morning. She slices it with her letter opener in between sips of coffee, thinking it’s too early to be the police report on Crakehall that she requested. She’s absolutely unprepared for a sheaf of pictures, obviously taken with a telephoto lens, and a typed note which simply reads “LEVERAGE.” The pictures are all of Judge Slynt in compromising positions, with names and dates appended to them. 

Sansa finishes a random article that’s already ninety percent done to keep her editor off her back and starts to track down the people in the photos, trying to corroborate the information. Slynt is one of the judges her brothers complain about the most and if this holds up she’ll be able to sweep him out of the way with one article.

She corners Metro editor John Luwin in his office before he can leave for the day, waving the photos and all the confirmation she’s been able to dig up. She already has a rough draft ready to go. Luwin takes one look at her flushed face and overbright eyes and stays to help her re-draft the article into something printworthy. When they send it to press, Sansa leans back in her chair, aware that things are about to change. Then and only then does she call her father to warn him.

“Sansa,” he says, happy to hear from her.

“Dad, I have to tell you something,” she says, and explains about the article the _Tribune_ is about to publish.

“You should have called me first,” he says. He’s angry, and something else she can’t quite place. “These are dangerous men, Sansa. We’ve tried to build cases against Slynt in the past but haven’t been successful. He has too many friends in the wrong places.”

“Not anymore. You arrested Crakehall. With Slynt out of the way the DA can actually move forward. You can finally start cleaning out the docks.” 

“It’s not just him. You have no idea how deep down crime goes in this city. You—”

“We have to start somewhere,” Sansa argues. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Where did you get these pictures? Who’s helping you?” Ned demands.

“Anonymous source,” she says, which is true enough. “Maybe people in this city are finally tired enough of being scared. Maybe this is what you need to finally save King’s Landing.”

“It’s not your job to protect the city,” says Ned, without any bite. He’s not Chief Stark now, but her concerned father. 

“It’s as much my job as it is yours,” says Sansa stubbornly. 

“Stay away from Crakehall and Slynt,” says Ned.

“I will when you will,” she says, and hangs up, fuming. 

*

She’s still angry when she finally leaves the building close to ten. Her body still isn’t fully recovered from going all night the day before and she’s not as vigilant as she normally is, walking to the underground. It doesn’t occur to her, at first, that she’s being followed since there are plenty of people out on the street downtown. But two turns later and an overlarge man with long hair is still pacing her. She’s about to cross the street to see if he follows when a meaty hand wraps around her arm and yanks her into an alley. The long-haired man blocks her in, watching as she gets hustled down a ways into a pool of darkness far from the street lamps.

A hand is over her mouth, making it difficult to breathe, impossible to scream. Sansa fumbles for her purse, for the pepper spray, but her assailant kicks it away. She tries to remember her self defense classes, but her flailing arms and legs can’t reach the man dragging her. She can only reach the arm across her chest so she tries clawing at it, and when that has no effect, goes all in and chomps down on the hand over her mouth as hard as she can. Her body drops to the concrete, a howl of pain ringing off the buildings above her; she rolls, tries to push to her feet to start running, but that meaty hand swings into the side of her head, knocking her into a brick wall. 

The hand is reaching for her and she’s baring her teeth, not willing to make this easy, hoping the commotion will draw some attention. She’s dazed from the blow, vision gone askew, so she doesn’t quite comprehend when the meaty hand’s owner is swept aside in a blur. The long-haired one comes running, gets snapped flat onto his back by a rustling darkness. Sansa gropes for her purse, feeling it before she sees it. Her hand finally closes around her pepper spray and she whips it out quickly, prepared to douse absolutely everything in her way.

The alley is silent, except for her panting. 

Shadows slide out of a little side alley running off the main channel, her hyperawareness instantly keying her in to the movement. She starts spraying indiscriminately and pushing herself backwards with both feet. The shadow shifts towards her—she opens her mouth to scream—and a warm gloved hand closes around her pepper spray. 

“I’d appreciate it if you stopped doing that,” says a figure all in black, looming over her. 

Sansa does, but only out of shock. She lies there, unable to think, unable to do anything except stare. 

“Are you all right?”

She nods dumbly. The figure is using some kind of voice modulator that makes his words come out in a slightly garbled electronic baritone. 

“Those men were sent by Roland Crakehall to kill you.”

Sansa can well imagine why. “How did you know?”

“It’s my business to know.”

Sansa starts to take in more and more of the figure as she goes from panicking to merely alert. It must be the same person who went after Crakehall, possibly the same person who sent her the dossier on Slynt. He’s slighter than Sansa would have guessed, not the hulking muscle she imagined was necessary to deal with the brutes at the dock. “Who are you?” she asks.

“Someone like you. Someone who wants to save King’s Landing.” He offers his hand, easily pulling Sansa to her feet. They’re just about the same height when she’s standing, him in his boots and Sansa in her flats. 

She peers at the face with its pitted black eyes and snarling mask, only the mouth visible. It strikes her then—the mouth, the shape of the jawline. All her instincts align into a swift conclusion. “You’re a woman,” she blurts out, surprised. It’s hard to tell, under the black suit which she can see now is some kind of segmented armor. It’s not an obvious feminine outline, not like the comic books Bran and Rickon leave lying around the house. She can see how, in the mad rush of a fight, one might think this was a man. 

The dark figure draws her cape around herself and withdraws a step, deep into the shadows. “It doesn’t matter who I am. Just what I do.” 

Sansa turns around, kneeling to pick up her purse and find her phone. “At least let me know how to contact you,” she says. When she stands she’s alone in the alley with two unconscious men.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Olenna is Margaery's sassy butler.

Margaery is tired. She refuses to say _exhausted_. She’s been truly exhausted once in her life, when she struggled across the glacial planes and up the snowy mountains of Nanda Parbat after two months of malnourishment in prison. In King’s Landing, where she has a ridiculously soft bed and access to three nutritious meals a day, the most she can say is that she hasn’t been sleeping much. That doesn’t make it any less irritating when Olenna drags open the curtains in her bedroom and sets down a clinking tray with more clatter than is really necessary.

“Your father used to wake up every day at 5 AM to get a jump on business,” says Olenna.

Margaery groans into her pillow, eyes shut tight. “I loved my father but that’s a lie and we both know it.”

“It’s after noon. If you’re going to insist on being nocturnal you may need to give up on the idea of rejoining Tyrell Enterprises or demand they revise their business hours.”

“It had to be done,” Margaery says, letting herself keep her eyes shut for a few more seconds.

“And the robbery you stayed up to deal with after your business with the Stark girl was finished? That had to be done?” Olenna bustles around, picking up the clothes at the foot of the bed and folding them neatly.

“I couldn’t just do nothing. I was right there,” Margaery insists. “And you make it sound as though we were in a meeting. I was thwarting an assassination.”

Olenna just clucks her tongue, unimpressed. “Well, you made the news again.” And she tosses a paper on top of the covers, already folded to the correct page.

Margaery disentangles herself from her nest of sheets and pillows; for all that she’s accustomed to hardship she does enjoy luxury. She pulls the paper to herself and starts reading about Sansa Stark’s foiled “mugging.” It’s suspiciously light on the details, which suits Margaery just fine. The longer she remains an undefined, amorphous night terror the better. She makes a satisfied sound, pushes the paper away, and begins her morning routine.

“You’ve a nasty bruise on your back,” Olenna says while Margaery burns through pushups. Margaery grunts.

“People will start to wonder why you keep turning up with injuries,” Olenna says while Margaery holds herself still in a handstand. Margaery keeps her eyes closed.

“You should think of a cover for when some reporter inevitably asks why you have a black eye,” Olenna says while Margaery guides her body through the steps of a form. Margaery stares straight ahead, hands weaving in slow, deliberate choreography. 

When she finally slides her feet together and exhales for the last time, she switches her gaze to Olenna, who looks utterly unrepentant about badgering Margaery for an hour. “Now what?”

“Now,” says Margaery, stretching out the word as she bends at the waist and brings her head down to her shins. “The real work begins.”

*

If Margaery is honest with herself, Crakehall was personal. She hates him, and yet he also saved her from becoming a murderer by ordering the death of her parents’ killer for turning state’s witness. She would have exacted her vengeance in broad daylight, uncaring in her callow youth, and thus would have ended the Tyrell name for all intents and purposes. Instead she became—this. Stronger, more in control, less naïve. Focused. 

Crakehall is being arraigned and she makes it a point to be present. A murmur follows her through the courthouse; she steadfastly ignores everything except the sound of her heels clicking on the polished stone floor, projecting confidence in a sharply cut grey suit. Her parents might have died nearly two decades ago but their deaths remain some of the highest profile murders ever in King’s Landing, and any mention of that dark time in her life brings out a fresh round of gossip and speculation. There was even an unauthorized TV movie about it, made while she was gone and everyone thought it was fine to descend to new depths of salaciousness. 

She’s early to the hearing, not wanting to slip in after it starts and cause a scene. The second to last pew on the left contains a very familiar head of copper hair, making Margaery smile minutely. Sansa looks fine, at least physically, with no visible injuries from the attempt on her life. And if she’s here, following up on Crakehall’s arrest like a good reporter, then odds are good she’s got her head on straight as well. “Careful,” Margaery says, sliding into the pew next to Sansa, “Next thing you know you’re covering politics, then world events, and then when will you have time for gossip?” Sansa seems stricken by the sight of her, which is not the reaction Margaery was expecting or hoping for.

“I owe you an apology. For the last time we spoke,” Sansa says. “It was insensitive of me to bring up…what happened.” For all that Sansa puts on the bravado of take-no-prisoners reporter, she has a sweet, sensitive heart, that much is easy to see. 

“You don’t need to apologize. If I got upset every time someone brought it up, I’d never have time for a normal life,” says Margaery, meaning it. She glances up to the front of the room, where sheriff’s deputies are starting to emerge from an employee entrance. “And I’m at Roland Crakehall’s arraignment, so I’m not exactly avoiding the topic.”

Sansa seems mollified by this, though her brows are still knitted together. “Why _are_ you here?”

Margaery offers her a half truth. “I wanted to see what kind of man he is. Why he attracts murderers and thieves. It’s probably not the healthiest personal interest—but there it is.” 

“I think…” Sansa hesitates. “I think it’s natural, to be curious. Because of how he’s linked to your past. It doesn’t sound unhealthy at all.”

For some reason Margaery finds herself wanting to tell Sansa more, all the rage and despair that multiplied inside of her after her first meeting with Crakehall five years ago. But she can’t, and regardless, this is hardly the place. “Thank you,” she says instead. Then, to steer Sansa away from going any deeper into her feelings, she turns on a small, playful smile. “Does this mean I’m forgiven for not calling you after my party?”

Sansa actually rolls her eyes, the personal moment between them evaporating. “Of all the bad things that have ever happened to me, that is as far down the list as it is possible to go.”

Margaery has no opportunity to reply because Crakehall is being ushered in, cuffed at his wrists and his ankles. Ambient sound in the courtroom takes a sharp upturn, only to quell as the judge enters and the bailiff calls _all rise_. When they’re seated again Margaery finds herself studying Crakehall’s face. He looks uncomfortable, though far better than when Margaery saw him last. 

The charges are read and Crakehall enters a plea of not guilty, which makes Margaery smirk, until the judge proceeds to agree with most of defense counsel’s suggestions and sets bail at ten thousand, a paltry sum for such a man. The trial is scheduled for an absurdly quick turnaround of twelve days. Margaery’s jaw tightens, but when she looks to her left, Sansa’s mouth is actually open in surprise. “Unexpected?” she asks, knowing full well it is.

“Judge Marbrand has a record of high or no bail for organized crime defendants. Everyone thought she would remand Crakehall.” Sansa is already scrolling madly through her phone, looking up a contact to call about this result. Her notepad and pen get stuffed into her bag and she starts scooting past Margaery. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“Of course.” Margaery stands so Sansa can leave, one eye still on the departing Crakehall. She never assumed that Slynt was the only crooked judge on the bench but Marbrand should have been a solid option. She needs more intelligence.

*

For Crakehall, she would have driven fearful customers out of his restaurant then cornered him outside for interrogation. But for Marbrand, she takes a softer approach, just in case. It’s easy enough to slip into Marbrand’s home while she’s sleeping, clone her cell phone and tap her office line, and leave wireless surveillance in place. She rifles through Marbrand’s files for good measure but doesn’t find anything untoward.

As Crakehall’s trial date approaches, she obsessively monitors the surveillance from the judge’s home. Finally, three days before the trial, Marbrand receives a phone call, but to a burner phone Margaery hadn’t spotted during her sweep. She can only hear Marbrand’s end of the conversation but her voice has gone dead, perhaps slightly scared. “Yes,” she says. “I know what to do. He’ll be acquitted.”

Margaery returns to Marbrand’s house that night, patiently waiting for an hour after the last light goes out. Then she slips in and catfoots to the bedroom. Marbrand would keep the burner close in case she needed to take a time-sensitive call, and to ensure it didn’t get picked up by anyone but her. Sure enough it’s on her bedside table, hooked up to a charger. With a few deft movements, Margaery clones the phone, replaces everything in exactly the same spot, and is gone without a sound.

The custom backtracer program she appropriated from among the software developed by Tyrell Enterprises for law enforcement use shows her exactly where the outgoing phone call originated, and its owner’s GPS location. She tracks it in the tumbler to one of the brownstones in the affluent neighborhoods around Kingsgate, climbs to a high, dark perch, and settles in for more surveillance. After only half an hour she’s alerted to another outgoing call from the originating phone and she presses her earpiece close. 

_“It’s Payne.”_

_“Everything taken care of?”_

_“She won’t be a problem.”_

_“Good. Keep me updated.”_

_“Yes, Mr. Lannister.”_

Margaery nearly rocks back on her heels. Hearing the name she can now recognize the voice well enough. She heard it for years at various charity and corporate functions, despite her best attempts to avoid them. In fact she spoke to its owner two weeks ago at the police gala. Kevan Lannister, board member of Lannister International and brother to Tywin Lannister, the richest man in the city.


	5. Chapter 5

When Margaery thinks about it, the Lannisters being hip-deep in crime is hardly surprising. She can’t even be sure Tyrell Enterprises is entirely clean these days, though that house cleaning will have to wait. Tywin Lannister has been the face of the corporation since he took his family’s small domestic company from less than five million in revenue per year to a multinational holding company worth billions. She’s gone through news archives, tracking the early days of their rise just after her parents’ murder to their current status as TE’s main competition. Just last year Lannister International underbid TE for an energy utility and acquired it anyway; viewed now through the knowledge that the Lannisters are crooks, it makes sense why enough of the utility’s board of directors for a quorum suddenly changed their votes to Lannister. 

Kevan Lannister, despite his board member status, has never done much publicly in the way of the family business. Margaery had always assumed he was unsuited to it but kept around because he was family or wouldn’t sell his shares. On the whiteboard where she’s beginning to construct the Lannister family hierarchy, she places him next to Tywin as the one who gets his hands dirty, purposely kept out of their legitimate business dealings for the sake of plausible deniability.

Digging deeper into the Lannisters is going to take more than news articles, though, and she doesn’t have the software or hardware to take on the top-level security no doubt protecting their secrets, nor does she have the time to go digging while she also sits on Roland Crakehall and Judge Marbrand. She picks out a dark blue suit with a cream drape-necked blouse, grabs the keys to the Maserati, and enjoys her drive to Tyrell Plaza. 

The Applied Sciences sublevel is cool and mostly dark, as usual. There’s no point in paying to keep the lights on all this square footage when only one person regularly comes down here. As ever, Brienne is in trousers, t-shirt, and cardigan at her work station. “How can I help you, Ms. Tyrell?” she asks without looking up from her computer screen. 

Margaery is the very picture of guilelessness. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Brienne taps out a few more lines of something, then spins around on her wheeled stool. “I was due for a break. So. Base jumping? Spelunking?”

Margaery likes Brienne immensely. She’s overwhelmingly smart, polite, and most importantly, not nosy. “Something far less harrowing today, I’m afraid. I’m setting up a work computer at home and was hoping you might guide me through some security protocols. How to protect my files, common and uncommon attacks that could be used against them, and so on.”

In the month or so that Margaery has known her, Brienne has developed a truly neutral look of mild disinterest whenever she’s asked about the goods tucked away in Applied Sciences. Today her eyebrow twitches slightly, indicating her surprise. “I’d be happy to do that for you, Ms. Tyrell—”

“No,” Margaery interrupts smoothly. “I like knowing how to do it for myself. And that way if anything goes wrong I’m not having to call IT all the way out to the house.”

“Of course,” says Brienne. She doesn’t even have to consult a directory before she leads Margaery to a set of file cabinets and opens up a drawer. She pulls out a thick color-coded binder. “This is the protocol we used to set up Tyrell Enterprise’s servers. The board wanted to farm it out but I—well, I really insisted and they listened for once. I think telling them it would be much cheaper if I did it helped.” Brienne looks down at the binder, almost shyly. Margaery wonders, not for the first time, if Brienne has always been this withdrawn, and if it’s in spite of her size or because of it. She wonders if someone once told a young Brienne not to take up so much room and the girl took it to heart, creating the quiet, bookish woman today. Margaery hates this theoretical person very much and has been trying to coax Brienne out of her shell since first meeting her.

Margaery flips through the first few pages, understanding about every third word. If she’d known how much of her life’s work would require extremely illegal network intrusion she might have gotten a degree in science of the computer variety, instead of the political. “Anything in server security for dummies?” she asks cheerfully.

“I suppose I could distill it down into the basics. A how-to guide.” 

“Excellent. How soon could you have it ready?”

“How time sensitive is it?” Brienne asks, already all business now that she has a solid task in front of her.

“Close of business tonight?” says Margaery. Normally she would say twenty-four hours but Brienne might be the most underpromising-overperforming person she’s ever met. 

“I can do that.” She bumps the drawer closed with her hip. “Anything else? I was just reading up on a laser mic prototype.”

Margaery hesitates. Extra surveillance techniques never go amiss in her line of business. “All right,” she agrees. “Lead on.”

*

Crakehall has been keeping a low profile while out on bail. Normally he wakes up late, makes a few phone calls, drives around the city to various meetings, then retires to his restaurant by the docks for dinner and drinks. His contact now is limited to his lawyer, a few close associates, and the girls he brings back to his penthouse. With the trial in just two days, Margaery is growing slightly desperate to find evidence on why the Lannisters are leaning on Marbrand to ensure his acquittal. She has her theories, but nothing that would get Marbrand off the trial. She’s been crouched across from Crakehall’s highrise for hours now.

Someone is knocking on Crakehall’s door—the laser mic is working well. She begins recording and presses a scope to her right eye. The man walking into Crakehall’s living room has the blonde Lannister look about him and it only takes a few seconds of flipping through her mental dossier to come up with a name. Lancel Lannister, son of Kevan, fresh out of university and evidently following in his father’s footsteps. 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” says Crakehall. He goes to the minibar, pours himself a slug of bourbon. He does not offer Lancel anything to drink.

“Evidently you do or my father wouldn’t have sent me,” says Lancel. He seats himself on one of Crakehall’s leather couches. 

“I already know what to do. You just keep up your end of the bargain.” Crakehall drinks most of his bourbon in one gulp. He seems agitated.

“We always make good on our bargains,” says Lancel. “But what we bargained for was a complete shipping operation. One of your men is attempting to break away and sell off a piece.”

Another drink. “No, I would know.”

“Lyle betrayed you.”

Crakehall repeats his denial, stronger. “No. Lyle’s been working for me since he was a kid.”

“He offered to export some goods for one of ours. He was quite explicit that the ships and the manpower were his, not yours.” 

Crakehall is at the window now, looking over the city lights. Margaery stares at him, not bothering to conceal her loathing in the darkness. “What do you want me to do?” Crakehall asks at last, resigned.

Lancel shrugs. “Nothing. It’s taken care of.” 

Crakehall turns abruptly, alcohol sloshing out of his glass. “What do you mean? What did you do to Lyle?”

“We made it clear to your men that we will not tolerate any alteration to the structure or nature of your business before we acquire it,” says Lancel calmly. His hand moves smoothly in and out of his jacket, producing a gun. “As I said, it’s taken care of. So sit down, have another drink, and think of what you want to do after you’re acquitted.”

Margaery has heard enough but she keeps recording to be thorough. She’s also curious to see what Crakehall will do. Fight or flight? Resist or surrender? In the end, he does what so many before him have done in the face of the Lannisters, and obeys. He sits, drinks, and doesn’t look at Lancel.

When Margaery is certain no more information is forthcoming, she uses her grappling hook to rappel down to where she’s stashed the tumbler and drives to her next location while assembling the pieces she has so far. The only thing really missing is the leverage the Lannisters have on Marbrand. Perhaps money, but that doesn’t feel right. There was something fearful in the way she spoke to the Lannisters’ man, Payne. Perhaps some past scandal, or a family member being threatened. 

Marbrand is hardly likely to keep evidence of a scandal lying around, but the extortionists would need it on hand in order to make good on their threat at any time. Margaery parks in an alley a block away from Payne’s brownstone, climbs up to the rooftops, and leaps her way to the right building. It’s a moment’s work to pick the lock on the rooftop door, then she’s descending into the building proper, pausing here and there to listen for activity. Thermal imaging from the tumbler said no one was home, but she wants no surprises. 

Payne’s office is on the second floor. She smiles when she sees that someone has carelessly left out the Marbrand file on top of the desk. There’s no time to copy the papers or mock up a facsimile; she has to swipe the whole file and take it, even though this will surely alert Payne that someone has been snooping. She’s out of the house even faster than she came in. Back in the tumbler, she pages through the file: a legal abortion while at uni is good smear material but not necessarily career-ending, a few moving violations are useless, but on the last few pages comes the reveal that Marbrand accepted a bribe in her second year on the bench. The economy was in an especially bad place, Marbrand’s stock portfolio was tanking, and the second mortgage on her home was barely a finger in the dam. The mortgages—held by a Lannister-controlled bank—mysteriously disappeared and Marbrand acquitted a Lannister man on something small time, a case that could have gone either way. 

Perhaps that’s why Marbrand has been so hard on organized crime, to make up for her past mistake. Margaery can almost admire her bravery in daring the Lannisters to expose her, although the truly brave thing would have been to refuse in the first place. But less desperate people have done worse things. And now the Lannisters are calling in the marker at a crucial time, indicative of a frightful level of long-term thinking. That, more than anything, solidifies for Margaery the enormity of taking them on. 

She checks the time: only eleven thirty. Plenty of time for an ambitious reporter to assemble something and submit an article before her paper goes to press.


	6. Chapter 6

Sansa is deeply asleep when she first hears her ringtone, so deep that at first she incorporates it into her dream instead of waking. The beeping is an alarm that she can’t find, no matter how hard she searches. She’s late for a final exam but she can’t leave until the alarm is off and she’s growing more and more panicked. But gradually she becomes aware that she’s in her bedroom, her phone is ringing, and she is absolutely going to murder whoever it is. She wants to bark out her annoyance into the phone but the blocked number on the screen makes her cautious. “Hello?” she says groggily.

“Judge Marbrand is being blackmailed by the Lannisters to influence Roland Crakehall’s trial.” 

It’s the electronic voice, the one her masked and caped acquaintance uses. Sansa pushes herself up, rapidly coming to alert consciousness. “How do you know?”

“The evidence is in your mailbox.”

“What—” 

The line goes dead.

Cautiously, Sansa takes the elevator down to the ground floor to check her mail. Sure enough, a padded manila envelope is in her box. It gives her pause; Sansa doesn’t know if she likes a violent stranger knowing where she lives, even if she does seem to be only targeting criminals. Sansa grabs the envelope anyway and hurries back up to her apartment, latching her door firmly behind her.

The envelope contains everything she could want to write an exposé on Judge Marbrand: original documents, dates and times, photos with negatives. Confirming most of this will be a breeze and Marbrand will be gone from the bench, stricken from the bar. Sansa hesitates to reach for her laptop as it hits her that she could end someone’s career in a few hours. Marbrand is a respected jurist and, until now, has been unafraid of the organized crime eating away at King’s Landing like a cancer. 

The other half of the equation is the Lannisters’ involvement. Included in the envelope is a flash drive with “play me” written on it in bold caps. She finally opens up her computer and plugs in the drive, curious to see what’s on it that links the Lannister name to Marbrand. She clicks the first title in the list, an audio file. It’s labeled with a timestamp and two names: Lancel Lannister and Roland Crakehall. As she listens, she jots down notes and draws out the connections that are forming between all the parties. It’s not the most damning audio file she ever heard, but then they rarely are. 

The other files are audio as well, all recorded phone calls, all solidifying the links between Marbrand, Crakehall, and Lannister. She adds illegal wiretapping to the list of vigilante activities that would no doubt give her father fits. 

In the end, Sansa really has no choice. She has pages of evidence that a sitting judge in a soon-to-begin criminal trial is being blackmailed by the richest family in King’s Landing. There is absolutely no way she cannot write this story. 

Fortunately for her, John Luwin likes to stay up late and answers her call on the second ring. She puts him on speakerphone, explaining about her “anonymous source” while she roughs out the article. She has about three hours to get this turned in and even with Luwin’s help it’s going to be tight. This is not how she pictured her transition to Metro at all but it’s happening, and it’s happening fast. 

Luwin wakes up a researcher to help confirm some of the details and just as three AM flips over on her clock, she sends the formatted article to be printed. Front page, no doubt about it with the Lannisters involved. They’re not just the richest family in King’s Landing, they’re one of the richest families in the country. The family’s net worth is bigger than the GDP of many small nations and their charitable arm funds everything from afterschool programs to advanced medical research to animal shelters. 

She fully intends to stay awake but as soon as the article is on its way, sleep deprivation comes crashing back into her consciousness. She sets her alarm to go off in four hours and falls asleep again wishing that crime could keep regular business hours.

*

Sansa is completely unprepared for the barrage of reporters waiting for her at the entrance to her building. For one, she doesn’t like that now everyone in the world seems to know where she lives. And for another she finds it incredibly frustrating that other reporters are trying to question a reporter about her story instead of following up on her article. 

“Ms. Stark, how did you come into possession of what are surely illegal recordings of private phone calls?” asks one. 

“Are you seriously suggesting that Tywin Lannister needs illegal enterprises to keep his company profitable?” asks another.

“That’s probably a good question to ask him,” Sansa replies acidly, and then refuses to say anything else, as much out of professional disgust as self-preservation. She also ignores the dogpile of texts and voicemails waiting for her.

Once she arrives at the paper—more reporters waiting there too—her editor intercepts her at the elevator. “Don’t even try to pretend you work for me anymore,” he says, turning her towards the Metro desks. And then, to her everlasting surprise, he says “Good job on the story, Stark.” She’s sure he’ll deny it if ever asked.

Her first stop is Luwin’s office. She knocks on the open door and he gestures for her to take a seat. There’s someone else already in the office, a tall woman with dark hair pulled back in a tight bun. “Sansa, this is Dacey Mormont, our in-house counsel,” says Luwin.

Sansa shakes her hand, not liking where this is going. “Don’t tell me we’re in trouble for publishing the article. We didn’t write anything that we couldn’t back up.” Which meant they’d had to leave out some of the more tenuous details, but the backbone of the story was intact.

“I’m afraid journalistic integrity doesn’t mean much when Tywin Lannister is angry,” says Dacey. “You might have noticed he’s loosed his hounds on you.”

Sansa shrugs. “When an independent investigation confirms everything about Judge Marbrand, it’ll turn back on him.”

“Oh yes, the police are already asking for copies of all your materials as well as the identity of your informant.” Dacey pulls out a warrant from her briefcase and lets Sansa glance over it. 

“I’ll make the copies for you right away, but you should know better than to ask for my informant,” says Sansa, handing back the warrant. The moment she opened that envelope of evidence she began bracing herself to protect her source’s identity. She really should call her mother about all this.

Dacey shrugs, clearly expecting that very answer. “This should go without saying, but Tywin Lannister buys what Tywin Lannister wants. If he wants to buy back his reputation and discredit you, he will. So be prepared for a dogfight.”

“I don’t even have speeding tickets,” Sansa says stubbornly. “He can try to come after me.”

Luwin makes a calming gesture with one hand. “If not you, he’ll target your family.” Off her wounded look, he continues, “I’m not telling you to stop. I’ll back you as long as you have evidence. But we want you to be prepared for the scope of what’s about to happen.”

“I can handle it. The Starks can handle it,” Sansa says, more confident than she feels with two people more experienced than her giving her worst case scenarios.

Luwin nods, clearly pleased; Dacey sighs. “Well now that you’re committed, give your anonymous source a call and warn them to watch their back, because the Lannisters are howling for blood,” she says. She packs up her bag and leaves the office with a nod for both of them, her mind clearly already anticipating the legal avalanche crashing towards her.

“It’s a good idea, Sansa,” says Luwin. “Whoever found all this information will be in a lot of danger if they’re discovered.”

“I…yes, you’re right,” says Sansa. She can tell Luwin is itching to ask who it is, but he’s too much the professional to go there. She waggles her phone, as though she’s going to go take care of it, and he gives her a friendly, encouraging smile.

Out of Luwin’s office, Sansa is caught in a moment of indecision. She has no clue how to contact her acquaintance. Hang around in dodgy parts of the city and try to get mugged, perhaps. None of the answers she finds on google on calling blocked numbers are helpful, nor are the two reporters she finds over at the Science and Technology desks. 

The rest of the day she spends supplying Dacey with the requested files, transferring everything over to her new desk at Metro, meeting the senior reporters who may or may not resent her for somehow getting the scoop of the year, and plotting an escape route to her apartment that avoids the circus outside. Luwin kindly agrees to let her leave an hour early to see if it throws them off her trail, so she exits through a side entrance with her hair tucked up under a borrowed ball cap and hurries to the underground without anyone the wiser.

Once at home she gets an idea and, feeling foolish, she writes in thick black marker on two pieces of paper “WE NEED TO TALK” and tapes them up in her living room window, which faces the street. Being on the eighth floor, hopefully only someone who knows to look will see her sign. She works on her laptop for a few hours, glancing expectantly at the window every now and then, but she’s met with silence and eventually she gives in and gets ready for bed.

It’s only when she’s in shorts and a tank top and about to pull back the covers that her phone beeps—the same blocked number, as usual, but this time a text message instead of a call: _Fire escape._ She looks to her bedroom window, where the staircase from the level above cuts down into her view of the next building over. Just in case, she grabs her pepper spray (refilled and ready for action) from her purse, slides open the window, and gingerly makes her way out onto the landing in her bare feet.

“You wanted to talk?”

Sansa manages not to jump too badly, whirling to find a crouching black figure perched on the fire escape railing. “How long have you been out here?” she demands.

“Not long. Are you all right?” Even through the synthesizer, she sounds concerned, and it somewhat tempers Sansa’s irritation at being startled.

“I’m fine. And you can turn that thing off. I know you’re a woman.” 

Her lips purse minutely. “I conceal my identity not just for my own protection, but for yours. The less you know about me the better.”

“That’s exactly it, though,” says Sansa. She jabs her pointer finger directly forward. “You keep feeding me all this sensitive information and I keep having to call you my anonymous source and defending the integrity of everything I write and I can’t even get in contact with you in an emergency. You know Tywin Lannister is talking about suing the paper and me personally?”

“Yes.”

Sansa nearly rolls her eyes. “Of course you do. If I’m going to be putting my career and very possibly my neck on the line I think I deserve a little more than a file shoved in my mailbox any time you need me to do your bidding.” She draws a deep breath, having finally expelled the complaints building pressure in her mind for most of the day.

For a moment there’s only the ambient sounds of the city in the warm night air between them. Her acquaintance is perfectly still, but for the slight rustle of her cape in an errant breeze. Sansa tries not to shift from foot to foot, waiting for a reply. Then: “What would help?”

“A name, for starters. What am I supposed to call you?” Sansa asks.

“The criminals call me Batman.” She sounds patently amused by the wrongness of their assumption.

“But you’re a woman,” says Sansa, already rolling the name _Batwoman_ around in her mind.

“If men need to convince themselves they were beaten by another man in order to accept what’s happened to them, I’m fine with it. It works in my favor. Theatricality and deception are powerful tools, Ms. Stark.” 

“What if I write that you’re a woman?” Sansa says daringly, though she doesn’t mean it. But after constantly playing catch up, she wants to try to level the field between them and her only real power lies in her reporting. 

“I won’t stop you. You have nothing to fear from me.”

Sansa snorts, folding her arms over her chest. “Nothing to fear from someone who wears a mask, has no proper name, and beats up other people for…what, the thrill of it?”

“For justice,” Batwoman replies, sounding completely and utterly sure of herself. “To show the people King’s Landing doesn’t belong to the rich and corrupt.”

“That’s very noble of you. Who decides who’s corrupt? You?” Sansa demands. 

“Yes,” she says simply, which Sansa was not expecting. She was expecting more of a fight, more of an attempt to justify herself to Sansa. Batwoman’s confidence in her rightness is slightly alarming to someone whose parents raised her to believe in a system guarded by many, not dominated by one or a few. But then she continues. “I am not an executioner. I will always turn over those I apprehend to the justice system. And you can trust that there are people in my life who…balance me.”

So she doesn’t work entirely alone; Sansa adds it to her little pile of clues. “Like who?” 

“A very honest reporter, for one.” It’s said seriously, nearly in the same monotone as most of her speech, but Sansa can sense the humor underneath. It makes her seem more human and less dread symbol, to know that she’s capable of humor. 

“This reporter needs a way to contact you,” says Sansa, almost flattered but remembering her feelings on vigilantes, inherited to some extent from her father. 

“I’ll add you to the secure line I used to call you. You can reach me there,” says Batwoman. She shifts, as if preparing to leave.

“Wait,” says Sansa, reaching out with her hand. She pulls it back, as though realizing she’s reached for a hot dish without an oven mitt. “What are you going to do next about the Lannisters?”

“Better if you don’t know.” 

Sansa finds that answer entirely too grim for her tastes. “Just—be careful. Don’t underestimate Tywin Lannister.” She toys with her fingers, gathering the earnest sentiment to say what she meant to at the start of their conversation. “And thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saving my life.” Sansa wants to take the steps that will put her within touching distance but so many things deter her from getting any closer. She looks down, focusing on her feet. “For what it’s worth, I think you are trying to help. But how can anyone ever really trust you, if they don’t know you?” She looks up for her answer and finds she’s talking to herself.


	7. Chapter 7

Robb stops by her apartment first thing in the morning. He at least has coffee with him, and she accepts his presence as the price of having a free venti mocha delivered to her waiting hand. “I thought dad might come himself,” she says, blowing on her coffee.

“He says hi. And to come to dinner this Saturday if you’re not too busy covering the trial,” says Robb, making himself comfortable on her couch. He’s already dressed and ready for the day, ever the overachiever. He could have gone to KL Law for free, but he didn’t want anyone thinking he got by because of his mother. So he’d spent three long years away in Oldtown at Citadel School of Law and had graduated top of his class, returning to take a position in the DA’s office just like he’d always planned. Sansa is glad he’s back, and not just because he tends to take her side when she argues with their father.

“Did he say anything else?” asks Sansa, reluctantly leaving her coffee so she can finish getting ready for work.

“Something about, I don’t know, placing yourself in an absurd amount of danger by implying the Lannisters are a bunch of gangsters.” Robb shrugs, eyes mockingly wide. 

“They _are_ a bunch of gangsters. And I sent him everything my source gave me.” She flips through the blazers hanging in her closet, wanting something just right for her first real day as a Metro reporter.

Robb hangs his head over the back of the couch, speaking in the general direction of her bedroom. “Oh and he wants to know who your source is too. I already told him what you’d say.”

“That he might as well ask me who assassinated Aegon Targaryen? Good luck with that,” says Sansa, now digging in her jewelry box for earrings.

“Well I wasn’t as pithy as you but yeah.” 

Sansa finally finds what she needs. “You’re never as pithy as me,” she says, poking the earrings in as she returns to the living room. 

Robb’s overexaggerated wounded look makes her smile, just for a moment. “I’m not in any more danger than dad or Jon or you face every day. So tell him to stop badgering me.”

“Tell him yourself at dinner on Saturday,” says Robb. He pushes himself up. “Now. Can I give you a ride to work or have they already given you a car for being their number one reporter?”

She pokes him in the side, right where she knows he’ll feel it most. “Shut up.”

*

Jon tries next, texting Sansa during lunch. _Dad really needs to know your source_ , he sends.

She replies with the punching fist emoji. 

_Haha I’ll tell him so_

She shoves her phone in her desk drawer. Luwin is already pushing her to request interviews from the Lannisters, any Lannister at all, and she’s still getting hounded by Lannister-influenced press. They’ve issued a public statement denying any wrongdoing whatsoever and hinting that Sansa herself is an unscrupulous reporter looking to sell papers and get pageviews by lying. The police are investigating the charges against Judge Marbrand on the original bribe but she’s still the presiding judge on Crakehall’s trial. Luwin has also asked her if she could possibly unearth anything else on the Lannisters that would reinforce the story and could she perhaps lean on her anonymous source who seems to have quite a lot of access to sensitive material? All this, plus a snide remark from senior reporter Melisandre Debrand that perhaps Sansa’s anonymous source was a hapless Lannister employee who got seduced and used; it’s been a long day and it’s only half over.

She’s in the middle of prepping to cover Crakehall’s trial tomorrow when her phone buzzes from inside her drawer. It takes her a minute to realize where the sound came from and when she digs out the phone, she has a text from her father. _Dinner tonight? Just you and me._

She hesitates, knowing he’ll try to push her to away from the Marbrand scandal, but replies _Yes see you at office 7:30?_ She misses seeing her parents every day and, as one of six children, rarely got her father’s full attention while growing up. Even if dinner ends in a fight she wants to spend time with him. Perhaps thinking of Margaery Tyrell so much recently has put in her the mindset to make the most of having a family. Margaery is fully grown, far removed in time from the tragedy of watching her parents die, but Sansa could see in her face during Crakehall’s arraignment that something about it has lingered—maybe even festered—within her. She could hardly be blamed for it being the most formative experience of her entire life.

Her father’s reply is prompt: _See you tonight._ She smiles and feels a little better about her shitty work day.

*

Ned Stark’s door is closed when Sansa arrives at his office at police headquarters. The organized crime task force has a large section of the building for itself and her father is at the end of an impressively long hallway. His secretary, Ms. Mordane, has been a fixture in the office for as long as Sansa can remember. She points to a seat to let Sansa know she has to wait. Barring emergencies, not even family are allowed to interrupt his work.

Sansa scrolls through her twitter feed to pass the time, very determinedly ignoring all her replies. She got some stick when she was a gossip reporter, the occasional weirdo, but nothing compared to now. Thankfully she only has to wait ten minutes this time; as a child Sansa would sometimes wait for hours, her and Robb reading or playing before their father could take them home because their mother was out of town on business.

Her father walks out in his uniform shirt, somehow managing to look tired and slightly rumpled but still professional. He hugs her and pops a quick kiss on her forehead. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“It’s ok,” she says, adjusting her purse strap while he gets his jacket.

“Go home, Ms. Mordane,” he says as the woman continues shuffling through a pile of papers and typing up notes on them. 

“Mm-hm,” she grumps at him without stopping. 

Ned slings an arm around Sansa’s shoulders, pulling her close. “Where to? Anywhere you want, my treat.”

“I would’ve come to see you a lot sooner if you’d made that offer from the start,” says Sansa, and Ned laughs. Work can wait for a while; for now they’re just happy to see each other. Sansa taps her chin with a finger, thinking. Her first instinct is to suggest a place they’ve been as a family for the familiarity, but she doesn’t want him to see her as a daughter tonight. She wants his respect as a serious professional, so she suggests Newcastle, a place she knows many of the ADAs and detectives like to frequent when they’re feeling upscale. 

When they’re seated and enjoying the free bread before their meal, Ned looks at her fondly over his menu. “How’s work?” he asks, genuinely interested. Sansa can credit him with that—he’s always been invested in all his childrens’ lives, even when he only had a few minutes here and there for them. 

“Work is good. Better than good. They made the move to Metro permanent,” she says proudly. 

“That’s fantastic. I know how hard you’ve been working. They’re lucky to have you,” says Ned, patting her hand.

Sansa lets herself preen a little, enjoying her father’s praise, even though she knows what’s next.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you myself, but your brothers are worried about you too,” says Ned which is, for him, a low blow.

“Jon and Robb understand that what I do is just as important as what they do,” Sansa says mildly. She doesn’t want this to escalate into a real fight but she will if she has to. 

“Of course your work is important. Your articles have been great work. But Sansa, they’ve put you in danger.” Ned leans forward, face graver than usual. “Tywin Lannister is a very powerful man. I wouldn’t even go after him unless I had incontrovertible proof.”

“I have proof,” says Sansa. 

“That’s another thing.” Ned leans closer still, his voice a low rumble barely heard over the restaurant’s ambiance. “I don’t want you seeing her anymore.”

Sansa blinks in confusion. “Who?”

“ _Her_.” 

The penny drops. She leans in too so they’re nearly bumping foreheads. “You know her? You know she’s a… _her_?”

“She visited my office a few weeks ago,” Ned says, and his resentment that she somehow penetrated his inner sanctum and got away is still plain to hear.

Sansa remembers now, the whispered conversations at the police gala, the crazy visitor. She feels relieved not to have to lie to her father, who is normally perceptive about untruths but especially when it comes to his children. “What happened?”

“Nothing. She asked for my help and I refused.”

Sansa can only imagine how short and sweet that conversation must have been. Her father has always been notorious for his honesty and unwillingness to cut corners, so much so that it’s led to accusations his reputation is just a cover for underhanded police activity. No one can possibly be that honest and not be a crook, so goes the non-logic of it all. “She gave you Roland Crakehall,” Sansa points out, despite her own misgivings about Batwoman.

“I will not allow vigilantism in this city,” says Ned, finger jabbing the tablecloth once for emphasis. “I know she’s been supplying you with information for your articles. Promise me you won’t see her again.”

“I can’t exactly control how she comes and goes,” says Sansa, a hint of the sardonic coloring her words.

“She’s dangerous and she’s getting you in over your head,” says Ned. He straightens up and puts on a bland smile as a waiter approaches their table. He asks for the roast chicken and Sansa, in a fit of pique, orders the most expensive steak on the menu. Ned looks at her wryly when the waiter leaves. 

Sansa is unrepentant. “I have verified everything I’ve published. In less than a month she’s given you Crakehall, Slynt, and Marbrand, and now she might even make a case against the Lannisters. Tell me that’s not progress.”

“Don’t you think we’ve been watching the Lannisters for years? Business deals that turn out a little too well, city officials who turn a blind eye, of course they’re dirty. But we’ve never had enough proof.”

“ _She_ could get you the proof,” says Sansa.

“At what cost?” Ned shakes his head. “Violence follows that woman everywhere she goes and it’s not going to end well. If you see her again, call me and I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“You want me to help you catch her?” Sansa asks, slightly aghast yet unsurprised. “Shouldn’t your priority be getting Marbrand off the bench so Crakehall goes to jail? The man is responsible for half the organized crime in this city, you’ve said so yourself.” 

“I have people working on it, but we can’t let someone run around in a mask and commit what would be considered police brutality if we did it,” says Ned. 

“How much more evidence do you need that Marbrand is compromised? It was all fact-checked by the paper,” says Sansa, trying not to sound hurt. If anyone taught her to be cautious and methodical, it was her father, and she can hardly blame him for wanting to get something like this correct.

“Tywin Lannister is making things difficult.”

“But if he’s trying to deny he has anything to do with Crakehall at all—”

“For the department,” Ned admits. “He’s making things difficult for us to do anything, not just Marbrand. He’s been insulted and he’s not taking it well.”

“Is he…pressuring you?” Sansa asks hesitantly, afraid to hear the answer. This is what Luwin warned her about but she can’t just give in to bullying. Starks don’t work that way.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Ned assures her. “I would never ask you to stop doing your job to make my job easier. I’m just worried about you, Sansa. As a father, not as a police officer. You were mugged and now this. If your mother and I had our way we’d lock you up at home and put a 24-hour guard on you. But—” He softens his face, stopping her objection before it even starts. “You’re an adult. We trust you to make adult decisions. So I’m asking you, adult to adult, reconsider what you’re doing for your own sake. Think of your career.”

Perhaps if he had leveraged her mother’s fears against her, played more on the cost to her family, she might have folded. But that has never been her father’s style. Sansa smiles, small and tired but resolute. “I am thinking of my career. Someone taught me to always get the job done, no matter what.” 

Ned leans back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “Well he was a fool, whoever that was. I think he would’ve preferred you became a fashion editor, like you used to dream when you were younger.”

Sansa’s smile grows into something warmer. “Young Sansa didn’t know what she wanted. Adult Sansa is sure. Trust me.”

Ned’s smile is a much-battered version of hers. “Always. It’s everyone else I don’t trust.”


	8. Chapter 8

Crakehall’s trial begins at ten in the morning. Sansa is there at 9:15, going through her notes and legal research and glad to have a seat close to the front. The gallery is already two-thirds full with other reporters and observers and it’s going to be packed come ten. She can feel some of the crowd glancing her way but ignores them.

One person conspicuously absent—to Sansa, anyway—is Margaery Tyrell. Perhaps she’s following from afar, or she sated her curiosity at the arraignment, or she’s busy with whatever occupies a billionaire’s morning. From her reputation she’s probably not even awake yet. Whatever the reason, Sansa has only the least energy to spare thinking about it because word came through early in the morning that Marbrand was finally removed from the case. Presiding now is Judge Selmy, long regarded as perhaps the finest jurist in the county, with a reputation for honesty to match her father’s. It’s the first bit of hope she’s had since she first published her article on Marbrand.

Except after the jury is brought in and both sides have delivered opening statements, it becomes slowly apparent to Sansa that Selmy is on Crakehall’s side. She’s not a legal expert by any means, but between two lawyers in the family and her own vigorous preparation she can see that Selmy is favoring the defense for no good reason that she can discern. And it’s not just her; she can see a few of the other reporters murmuring to each other, exchanging glances. During the lunch recess she finds a relatively private alcove, calls Luwin, and paces anxiously through the ringing until he answers.

“They got to Selmy,” she blurts out.

“Who got to Selmy?” Luwin asks.

“The Lannisters. Somehow they got him to do exactly what they wanted Marbrand to do. He’s not letting the prosecution do anything.”

“Sansa, slow down.” Luwin takes a deep breath, air hissing against the mouthpiece. “Selmy’s reputation is unimpeachable. Not every judge in King’s Landing is corrupt.”

“I know that, but Selmy is not ruling like an impartial judge,” Sansa insists. “You’ll see when you read the court records.”

“Just…we’ll talk about it when you come back to the office. Okay?”

“Okay.” She hangs up feeling troubled. Luwin didn’t sound particularly convinced and even she has to admit that it’s farfetched. But she knows in her gut that she’s right. She bites her lip, debating her next move. She’s a reporter and she needs to develop her own resources and skills—but this is an emergency. She brings up her contact list and dials the number she’s stored innocuously under the name “Chiropractor.” It’s a long minute before anyone answers, but eventually she does. 

“It’s Sansa Stark,” she says, then winces awkwardly because she doesn’t suppose Batwoman receives many unknown calls.

“Are you all right?”

“Selmy is the new judge on Crakehall’s trial and I think the Lannisters got to him.”

A pause, not unlike the one Luwin already gave her. “Are you certain?”

“No,” she admits. “But he’s already tipping the trial in favor of Crakehall in spite of the prosecution’s evidence against him. I mean your evidence. You know what I mean.”

“Don’t approach the Lannisters about this. I’ll take care of it.”

“Like hell I won’t—” she begins to exclaim only to stare at her phone in subdued frustration when it beeps at her to signal end of call. She’d meant to get help, not have her investigation completely usurped. She wishes she weren’t in heels so she could properly stomp back into the courthouse but as it is she tugs her blazer straight, rearranges her notes, and slips back into the courtroom without bothering with lunch in order to make sure her seat doesn’t get taken. She has two power bars and a water bottle in her purse, which should be enough to get her to dinner. She’ll show Luwin she’s not imagining things. 

*

“I think you’re imagining things,” says Luwin, not unkindly. “I understand there’s a lot going on and you’re quite deep into your research on the corruption in our courts, but—”

Sansa pulls out her notepad, flipping through the pages and pages of writing from the trial. “It’s not me. It’s the facts, what’s _actually happening_ in the trial. Selmy wouldn’t admit some of the state’s most crucial evidence!”

“Judges do rule against the prosecution in a trial,” says Luwin. He won’t quite look at her for a moment and Sansa shifts forward, piercing him with her gaze.

“Did someone tell you not to look too hard at Selmy?”

“It has nothing to do with Selmy.”

“What has nothing to do with him?” Sansa asks, even though she can see where this is headed.

Luwin attempts to remain composed but eventually coughs into his hand. “Sansa. First of all, the paper stands by you.”

“That’s a relief,” she says sarcastically.

“But the paper is also under enormous pressure to retract the articles and fire you.”

A flush creeps up Sansa’s cheeks; she knows it makes her look extra young but she can’t help it. “We fact checked _everything_.”

He nods along with her. “Yes, I know. And that’s what’s keeping us—you—safe for now. But our advertisers are feeling the pressure too. Our owners are thinking about the bottom line and when money is involved, I’m afraid sometimes it puts limits on our ability to be journalists.”

_That’s not fair_ rushes up to the tip of her tongue but she’s an adult and she knows how this game is played. She slumps a little in her chair, finally letting out some of the tense rigidity in her shoulders for the first time since this morning. “I know.” The words hiss out in one long, aggravated breath.

“Take the rest of the day,” Luwin says. His face is sympathetic but his tone is more order than suggestion.

“Yeah, sure,” Sansa mutters. She pushes herself up, gathers up her things from her desk, and leaves through her accustomed side entrance just in case anyone is lingering around the front still trying to get a quote from her. Even though she’s only leaving work an hour early, it’s enough for her to avoid rush hour and get back to her neighborhood in time to pick up some groceries in peace. She spends the evening documenting and duplicating her notes in obsessively meticulous detail—when Luwin comes to his senses she wants to be prepared with the most thorough article of all time—and preps for tomorrow. It’s late when she gets into bed, bringing along a book to distract her overactive brain.

Of course, the moment she’s finally about to nod off, her phone beeps. It’s really a testament to how busy her life has gotten that she doesn’t automatically assume it’s Batwoman, but Batwoman it is, with one word: _outside_.

This time Sansa makes sure to pull on sneakers before climbing out onto her fire escape. Batwoman is crouched on the railing almost exactly as she was before, her own personal gargoyle—if gargoyles had gone high-tech. Sansa has been paying attention to her suit and the little gadgets attached to her belt, trying to catch a glimpse of anything recognizable. So far it all seems custom-made and an order beyond modern law enforcement gear. How much money must it take, she wonders, to fund such an outfit. 

“Selmy isn’t being pressured by the Lannisters,” says Batwoman.

Sansa’s face drops into confusion, then disbelief, and finally anger. “You can’t tell me he’s just making terrible bench decisions for no reason.”

“I didn’t say that.” Batwoman holds up a USB stick before tossing it lightly to Sansa. “He has an e-mail address that he only uses to write one person. He’s been in contact with them for months now. They write in code, but it’s obvious they’ve been planning something.”

Sansa rubs the stick with her thumb, eager to go through it. “And?”

Her eyes, piercingly bright in contrast to the completely darkened skin around them—eye black, perhaps eye shadow?—narrow slightly. “And nothing else. You won’t be able to prove anything with what’s on that.”

Sansa’s arms flop against her sides. “Well, fantastic. I’m an accomplice to whatever no doubt illegal method you used to obtain this all for nothing.” 

“It’s a beginning.”

Sansa takes a moment to wrangle her stress into something manageable then nods, head hanging, lips rolled up tightly. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.” She rolls her eyes at herself in self-deprecation. “Look at me talking about long days in front of you. I can’t imagine what your days are like.”

“Bats are nocturnal.” 

Sansa frowns, but then her face relaxes. “That was a joke. That’s good. You’re very funny. I’m glad one of us still has a sense of humor about all this.” She leans back against the opposite railing, openly regarding Batwoman with curiosity. “How do you do all this?” She holds up the USB, waving it around. “This?”

“Will is everything, Ms. Stark. I doubt you’ve gotten this far by being weak-willed.”

They stare at each other, a mild wave of mutual understanding going between them. Then Sansa blurts out, “My father turned you down. I’m still not sure if he had the right idea or not.” When no response is forthcoming, she continues. “He doesn’t want me to see you anymore. I mean, get help from you.”

“I won’t tell your father if you don’t.” 

The combination of Batwoman’s expressionless face, the dry words, the absurdity of meeting with a masked vigilante like they’re just about to step inside for coffee—it all makes Sansa bubble up in laughter. “This might be the most epic delayed teenage rebellion of all time,” she says, eyes squeezing shut she’s laughing so hard. When she opens them she is, as she thought she might be, alone on the fire escape. But like any constancy, the disappearing act is starting to become reassuring to her. 

Inside, she sets about devouring the contents of the USB drive right away. It’s as Batwoman said, just a series of emails, about eighty in total, all written in language so innocuous it can only be some kind of code. She falls asleep while cataloguing dates and times and dreams of a girl in all black throwing pebbles at her childhood bedroom window.


	9. Chapter 9

Barristan Selmy is up to something, of that Margaery is absolutely sure. She’s been following the trial closely and it’s looking more and more likely that Crakehall is going to be acquitted. It’s disheartening to realize King’s Landing’s corruption runs deeper than even she suspected. There are good people in this city but they are few and far between. The real question is if they have the amassed power to tip the balance, if there’s even enough left to make the whole worth saving.

That, she realizes, sounds far too much like someone else she once knew, someone who only believed in their own justice. She can’t afford to give in to despair.

What she really needs is more intel. Despite the absurdly powerful software intrusion systems now running down in the cave, she has yet to find anything except Selmy’s emails. There is nothing linking him to the Lannisters except for a few minor campaign contributions, far below the maximum donation amount. Selmy’s bank accounts show nothing out of the ordinary, nor does he have any suspicious assets. He has no family on which anyone could apply pressure and his acquaintances all seem to be of the professional variety. He is, as far as she can tell, clean.

*

“Ms. Tyrell!” says Brienne, happy to see her as usual. Today the button-down under her cardigan is patterned with tiny dinosaurs. 

“I’ve got quite a puzzle for you today,” says Margaery, holding up a USB stick with a copy of Selmy’s e-mails, scrubbed of all personal data. “What have you got on cryptography?”

“Looking for extreme sports of the mind now, are we?” asks Brienne, nevertheless perking up at the mention of a puzzle.

“It’s for a scavenger hunt,” says Margaery, as if that’s something she would be likely to do. 

Brienne just takes the stick and plugs it into her computer. “We do have a few programs we subcontracted out on a defense deal,” she says, loading up something on her terminal. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“I want to see if these messages correspond to any events that occurred in King’s Landing in the past few months, possibly with arrest or sentencing records. If we can establish a pattern then perhaps I can decipher future communications.” Margaerey tries not to lean over Brienne’s chair, not wanting to crowd her. 

“Long-term scavenger hunt, eh,” says Brienne, more of a comment to herself than anything needing a reply. She always seems at least a little amused by the effort Margaery makes in coming up with thin excuses for each visit to Applied Sciences. 

“How long do you think this will take?” 

Brienne shrugs, focused on her screen. “Depends on the complexity of the code. I’m not much of a cryptographer, truth be told. If the program doesn’t work you may need to take this to a real expert.” 

Margaery wonders how Sansa Stark is getting along, no doubt already hip-deep in the information Margaery delivered last night. “I have faith in you,” she says, one hand light on Brienne’s shoulder. Brienne doesn’t seem to hear her while she sifts data, so Margaery wanders away to look through the archives of discontinued prototypes. 

“Ms. Tyrell,” Brienne calls while Margaery fiddles with a compressed air rifle for delivering small explosive charges. “This really could take a while. I’ll call you when it’s done?”

She clearly doesn’t want Margaery hovering—for all that she’s said she considers Applied Sciences to belong to Margaery, it’s her domain, to curate and look after and keep safe. “Of course,” says Margaery.

She returns to the manor, where she manages to get Olenna to leave her alone during her workout by promising to make good on the dinner reservations Olenna “went to quite a bit of trouble to make, Miss Tyrell.” Which is of course a lie, since Margaery has never needed reservations, not even for Crownlands Hotel. And they know for a fact Randyll Tarly will be at Crownlands for dinner, conveniently able to witness Margaery at her playgirl best, a total non-threat to his control of Tyrell Enterprises.

She keeps it simple in a black suit—tuxedo-cut jacket with satin collar, crisp white button down underneath, form-fitting pants, Louboutins—and her date is a model-slash-actress-slash-DJ she picks up in the Lotus after a photoshoot for one of TE’s subsidiary publishing companies. They’re fashionably late for the reservation and she can see Tarly doing a double take as she walks in with her arm around her very tall, very slender date’s waist. Model-slash-actress-slash-DJ is named Felicia (or possibly Alicia) and she chats about all the projects she has in the works while Margaery feigns interest and thinks about how long it will take to return to the cave for her gear. She needs a safehouse somewhere in the city.

Felicia spots another model she knows, a very striking redhead, and so there’s really nothing for it but to have their tables put together and then the girls have ordered champagne and trotted off with the bottles while Margaery smirks at the put-out looking businessman left at the table with her. It’s actually not so bad, watching Felicia and her friend make everyone in the restaurant uncomfortable as they giggle and dance along the edge of the fountain display in the middle of the room. Margaery’s not so much older than them but they seem so young, completely carefree, able to enjoy themselves fully in a way she doesn’t know will ever be an option for her again.

“Excuse me,” says the maître d’. “The fountain is not a dance area.”

“Anything is a dance area if you try hard enough,” Margaery says breezily, tilting her head to see past the maître d’. Felicia is grinding her rear end into her friend’s hips and Margaery would be lying if it wasn’t having at least a little effect.

“I’m afraid I must ask you and your guests to leave.” The maître d’ in fact looks very unafraid about asking this.

Margaery sighs; and she was just beginning to enjoy the evening. Her checkbook and a pen come out of her clutch, and after she’s acquired a new hotel, she collects both girls much to the chagrin of the now lonely and still nameless businessman. Felicia wants to go to a fantastic underground party she knows about and Margaery hums her agreement, fully intending to drop off her and her friend and go straight home. 

On their way to the carport she hears her name and suddenly the evening loses some of its shine. Sansa Stark is entering the restaurant looking even better than she did at the police gala, dressed to do much more than impress in a little black number that emphasizes just how much of her is leg. Her makeup is starkly classic but not overdone and her hair is in soft waves around her face.

“Ms. Stark,” Margaery says, stopping in her tracks. She can see Sansa taking in her attire, the two women standing just behind her whispering to each other, adding everything up to a conclusion. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening,” says Sansa, starting to hurry away.

“It’s fine. You look lovely tonight,” says Margaery, more polite than flirtatious.

“I—oh.” Sansa looks down at her dress. “Thank you.”

“Your trial coverage has been quite good. I’m looking forward to more.”

Sansa narrows her eyes, any awkwardness at running into Margaery like this disappearing quickly. “Do you need an interview released or something? You should probably contact the business editor; I’m only really doing crime reporting right now.”

“No, I assure you,” Margaery says. She turns one of her subtler smiles on Sansa, aware that blatant handling will probably go over badly. Sansa is stubborn and perceptive and, after quite astutely realizing Margaery was using her for her newspaper connection, rather immune to being charmed. “I’m only interested in good reporting.”

Sansa looks as though she doesn’t really believe Margaery, but she accepts the compliment on its face with a simple “Thank you.”

The Lotus pulls up, engine rumbling smoothly, and the girls stack into the passenger seat. 

“Perhaps you’d like to join us?” Margaery offers, a hint of something impish tugging up one corner of her mouth. She knows full well Sansa will turn her down but she does so enjoy poking her, just a bit. The most honest, upright people have the best reactions to even a hint of debauchery. She can only imagine the faces she’d get out of Ned Stark.

Sansa eyes the car, the two women beckoning for Margaery to join them so they can get out of there, and makes the face Margaery knows means she wants to roll her eyes but is restraining herself. She’s becoming quite familiar with it. “Looks like you’re full.”

“Another time, perhaps,” says Margaery. She palms a hundred to the valet and makes to duck inside the car. “Don’t work too hard, Ms. Stark,” she calls out before settling herself in the driver’s seat. With the doors shut and her hand on the gearshift, she gives the girls a wolfish grin. “Now where were we.”

*

Felicia and her friend aren’t too disappointed to be dropped off at someone’s Rivergate loft, though they make a few cursory efforts to entice Margaery inside. Halfway back to the manor, Margaery’s phone beeps, and when she glances at it realizes that Brienne is texting her. Her blu-tooth display pops up with the message: _decryption complete, should I send file or hold for pick up?_

She’s only a mile or so from the tower so she sends back a hold order and guns it down the broad boulevard bisecting King’s Landing. 

Brienne is waiting for her when she steps off the elevator into the Applied Sciences sublevel. “Sorry to interrupt your evening, Ms. Tyrell,” she says.

Margaery waves a hand. “What do you have?”

“Well,” says Brienne, dropping into her chair and rolling over to her workstation. She already has sections of e-mails queued up on her screen and points them out to Margaery. “First of all, it would have been helpful to know where these originated from.”

“I was hoping you would tell me that.”

“Honestly, if you can find someone to tell you that based on this information, you should hire them instead,” says Brienne. Margaery’s delight at her cheek goes unseen by Brienne, who is already moving on to the next piece of the puzzle. “Now I asked the program to correlate data with Judge Selmy’s sentencing records.”

“I never said it was Judge Selmy,” Margaery points out.

Brienne just gives her a look which on anyone else would be a gentle reprimand but on her is bordering on contempt.

“Point taken. Continue.”

“And eventually it found the pattern, with a little help on my part. Whoever’s giving the instructions, they want Selmy releasing as many big hitters as possible. Not enough to blow his cover, but enough to still be causing trouble for the police. He mentions you in the last few e-mails, here and here.” Brienne highlights the appropriate sections. “And his boss doesn’t seem all that worried, or you’re not their top priority.”

Margaery frowns at the screen, reading the translation. “Make me a copy, please.”

Brienne holds up a USB stick, ready to go. 

Margaery takes it, pleased. “You deserve a raise, Ms. Tarth.”

“Tell my boss,” says Brienne.

*

She almost doesn’t go to Sansa’s apartment, thinking she’s probably still on her date. But when she sends a message that they should meet later that night, Sansa responds that she’s at home. Date cut short then, although she can hardly ask why. Margaery could have checked, could have peered in Sansa’s windows or scanned her with thermal imaging, but it’s all so invasive. Sansa deserves her boundaries and Margaery wants to respect them, doesn’t want to fall into the trap of thinking that just because she can she should. 

She asks Sansa to meet her on the roof instead of on her fire escape. Anyone walking through the alley below might chance to look up and she can’t keep putting out the surrounding lights without raising questions from the neighbors. She waits on an adjacent building for Sansa to emerge and when she does, changed from her date in soft yoga pants and a tank top, Margaery lands silently on the ledge. She lets some gravel crunch under her boot so Sansa knows she’s there. For a moment, she wonders if seeing Margaery Tyrell and Batwoman so close together will connect in Sansa’s mind. If anyone were to figure it out it would be her—but the mask and her shifted body language and the voice scrambler do their work as effectively as ever.

“You know, there’s a fine line between naturally quiet and serial killer,” says Sansa, though she doesn’t really look too startled. Up close, with her makeup scrubbed off and her hair pulled back, she could almost be any sweet, naïve-looking girl except Margaery has already seen her razor intellect and sharp determination. 

She holds up the USB stick Brienne gave her. “Selmy’s emails decoded.” She hands them over, watching as Sansa’s face goes from intrigued to, of all things, disappointed.

“I kind of wanted to solve them myself,” says Sansa with a hint of self-deprecation. “Not that I don’t want this, but it would have been satisfying, you know?”

“It’s still not enough to deal with Selmy, but it should help us identify who’s giving him orders,” says Margaery. 

“What do you mean? It’s not the Lannisters?” Sansa asks, plainly not believing it. 

“My expert is certain. Selmy is taking orders from someone else. Someone who wants King’s Landing destabilized. We just can’t prove it yet.”

“Then why bring it to me?” Sansa clutches the stick tightly, as though afraid Margaery might take it back. 

Margaery looks her in the eye. “Because you deserve to know what’s going on. I owe you that much.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Sansa replies bluntly. “I’m a reporter. I would have published those articles whether you asked me to or not.”

“Take it, Ms. Stark. See if you can make anything of it. And be careful; just because the first attempt on your life was unsuccessful doesn’t mean there won’t be another.” She’s already calculating trajectories for her exit when Sansa grabs her attention.

“I trust you to be there if I need you,” she says.

Margaery feels something go awry in her chest, something she hasn’t felt since she was a teenager trying to forget for once that her parents were dead and just live her life. “What happened to not trusting a vigilante?”

Sansa’s features are serious, but gentle. “You trusted me first.” 

Margaery backs up towards the ledge. “Have a good night, Ms. Stark.” For the first time she doesn’t wait until no one is looking to leap off the building. Her cape snaps out, letting her soar to a shorter rooftop a few hundred feet away. When she lands and turns around, Sansa is still on the roof, watching her.


	10. Chapter 10

The dreams are never quite the same, but in them she’s always scared.

_the fire, collapsing all around her_

She’s tried everything to negate them from medication to intense exercise but it seems some things will always haunt her.

_it crushes her she sinks into the mountain clutching at—_

As a child she would be trapped in the dreams until morning or, if she was lucky, Olenna heard her thrashing and woke her up.

_falling, still falling, shards of rotten wood raining down around her_

Her eyes open slowly as she comes out of the dream. She’s trained herself to recognize when she’s dreaming and to wake herself up, but the physical aftereffects of fear can’t be helped. Her heart rate drops on command and stops pumping so much adrenaline through her body, leaving her slightly clammy in a tangle of sheets. Next to being bitterly cold, it’s her least favorite feeling.

Olenna finds her obsessively straining through too many pull-ups, arms just barely able to hold on without shaking. Margaery grits her teeth and pulls anyway because no one will ever give her the luxury of being too tired, too weak, too slow. 

“You’ll hurt yourself,” says Olenna, putting down her tray holding a protein shake, the newspaper, and a carb-heavy breakfast. 

Margaery has no breath to do anything but grunt in the negative. She dead hangs, willing herself for one more. Just one more. She struggles up, so slowly, but all the way up, and then she lets herself drop to the floor, panting and useless and limp.

Olenna stands over her, nudging her with her toe. “Feel better now?”

Margaery just glares up at her.

“When you can feel your arms again, come down to the cave and help me with all this infernal computer searching.” Which is rich coming from Olenna, who is just as technology-competent as Margaery, but much crankier about it. Still, it helps to be disgruntled with Olenna rather than feeling sorry for herself so she massages the life back into her muscles, chugs the shake and scoops down the breakfast, and takes the paper to go.

Investigations into everyone involved with the Crakehall trial are going slowly, even with Brienne’s technical assistance. Olenna is paranoid about detection and Margaery can’t spend all her time in the cave, no matter how hard she tries. There are twelve jurors with complicated private lives to untangle, and then the prosecution, and everyone in the district attorney’s office even remotely connected to the case, and the witness list. Nine of twelve jurors are clean, so far as she can tell. Olenna is closing out number ten when Margaery gets off the elevator.

“Mrs. Rodriguez looks like a dead end,” says Olenna, leaning close to the terminal despite her bifocals. 

“I’ll start on juror number eleven.” 

“And then perhaps this evening you could use the family box at the ballet? I hear the city corps is putting on Lady of the Camellias.” 

Margaery doesn’t answer, her usual method of dealing with Olenna’s continued attempts to poke and prod her into having a real social life rather than a feigned one she flashes at the press. And in any case, she already has plans for tonight.

*

Selmy hasn’t received any more e-mails as the trial progresses, which suits Margaery just fine as she’s still monitoring all Lannister communication, both legitimate and criminal. Tywin Lannister is, of course, still furious with the assault on both his public image and his actual criminal enterprises. Margaery has taken it upon herself to bug the Lannister properties, no easy feat considering their security and general paranoia. It’d used all her art to slip in and out of their family homes and corporate offices without being noticed.

She’s crouched across from Cersei Lannister’s penthouse, one ear on her and one ear on the chatter of the police bands. She never spent that much time in Cersei’s company, before she left; Cersei was older and ran in different social circles and besides which their families were business rivals. But her impression back then was always one of frigid civility, as though once out of earshot Cersei might cattily rip Margaery to shreds with her friends. 

Tonight is slightly tedious as Jaime Lannister is over for dinner and they talk of nothing in particular as siblings who see each other every day are wont to do. Margaery wonders at the absence of Cersei’s husband Robert, but then being the mayor of King’s Landing is an onerous task. She has no doubt he’s part of the reason why Sansa’s articles about the Lannisters haven’t come to much so far—not a lot to be gained in going after the mayor’s father-in-law, even if there’s no love lost between them. He might have even asked Ned Stark to delay his investigation, though somehow she doubts that. She’d vetted Ned very carefully before approaching him, aware that her childhood memories of him as a kind, warm presence could have easily been lost to modern vices, and found him to be unsparingly, painfully honest.

Cersei is pouring a fourth glass of wine, a very good Dornish vintage if Margaery is reading the label correctly through her scope, and her tongue is finally loosening. “It’s taking too long,” she says.

“Father seems content to wait,” says Jaime.

“It could be weeks. Months. Longer. Meanwhile that girl is still free to say whatever she wants about our family.”

Margaery turns up the volume on Cersei’s feed.

“That is the way a free press works.”

Cersei glares at Jaime over the rim of her wine glass. “Father should have Uncle Kevan take care of it.”

“You already tried, remember? Father was furious with you for arranging it. He wants to wait until it looks less suspicious.”

Margaery remembers with cold fury the attempt on Sansa Stark’s life, clumsily disguised as a mugging. 

“Those oafs would hardly have been my first choice. Although it would have worked if Batman hadn’t shown up.” Cersei makes a very undignified snort. “Batman. Ridiculous.”

Jaime shrugs. “Symbols have power. He’s big and dark and scary. It’s effective.”

“He’s a man in a black suit. He can die, just like any other man.”

“He beat a dozen of Crakehall’s men.”

“Common thugs. And it’s the girl I want, not Batman. Dealing with one girl should be simple.”

Margaery’s grip on her scope tightens, imagining the solid metal and rubber is Cersei’s throat.

“Oh? Hypothetically, how would you do it?”

“Accidents are always best. A car runs a red light, a trip and fall on the subway, a gas leak in the home, severe food allergies if she has any.”

Jaime just nods along with the list. Cersei is the dominant sibling, Margaery has found over the length of her surveillance. Jaime is the reluctant heir, only recently returned from the continent and a pro footballing career that ended when he did his ACL. She actually saw the match where it happened; she was in a dank bar somewhere in Asshai three years ago and it was on the comically large television in the back room where she was learning how to plan a large-scale robbery. His knee was demolished, career over in a second. 

The two of them continue to drink wine in companionable silence for a few minutes. Cersei is sliding toward Jaime on the sofa when a door bursts open, so loud it creates a painfully harsh burst in Margaery’s ear. As she winces, she sees Joffrey Baratheon enter from his bedroom, and her mouth turns down further in a grimace. The son is even more unpleasant than the mother, all money and no control.

“I’m going out,” he says, not even looking at his mother and uncle. 

“Let security get the car,” says Cersei, already reaching for the handset to call down, but Joffrey waves dismissively at her.

“I can drive myself.”

The next few minutes are Cersei trying to coax Joffrey into using Lannister security and Joffrey contemptuously pushing off her attempts at coddling. He’s bound to be up to no good, and Margaery doesn’t have to follow him around on the rooftops to know that. His exploits have been in plenty of papers, from defacing property to public intoxication to loud attempts at picking fights with paparazzi. She lets him leave without a second thought and continues focusing on Cersei and Jaime, how Cersei sits a little too close to Jaime to really be sisterly, one hand running up and down his thigh. She stops looking soon after that.

*

There’s a certain psychological queasiness that lingers after witnessing something so intimately wrong. She’d muted the audio and put down her scope almost immediately but there is absolutely nothing in the world short of total amnesia that will erase the image of Jaime and Cersei Lannister engaging in the prelude to coitus. 

She wonders if Robert Baratheon knows. She wonders about the Baratheon children, all so easily identifiable as Lannisters, so like Jaime and so unlike Robert. 

The second thing to occur to her is that she now has leverage to force the Lannisters away from interfering with police investigation or from going near Sansa. She suspects in the face of this kind of blackmail, criminal charges will look fairly pedestrian by comparison. She would feel bad about threatening to ruin someone else’s life with so devastating a secret if it weren’t for what the Lannisters are doing to the city—and if they hadn’t attacked Sansa. 

She returns to the mansion as soon as she’s certain Cersei is asleep—Jaime left, despite Cersei asking him to stay in what sounded like an old argument. Olenna is waiting up in the library, glasses low on her nose while she reads a book by the fire. 

“I found something,” says Margaery, still in the Underarmour tights and crew neck she wears under her suit. She holds up a flash drive containing the recording of Cersei and Jaime. “And you’re not going to believe it.” She’s brought a laptop with her to play the audio file, and as she does, she looks to Olenna for her reaction.

It’s fairly underwhelming, as reactions to incest go. “Those two always were an odd pair,” says Olenna. “And everyone suspected Tywin Lannister had a hand in Jaime’s transfer from Crownlands United to that Free Cities team. Whichever one it was.”

“FC Volanti,” Margaery murmurs, remembering that ill-fated game. She frowns. “Olenna, are you saying Tywin knew all along and separated them on purpose?”

Olenna shrugs. “All I know is the transfer happened quickly and Crowlands could’ve gotten twice the asking price for him. Someone wanted him gone.”

“But you suspected before that?”

“I suspect everyone and everything on your behalf,” says Olenna. She closes the laptop. “It’s how you stay alive in a business like ours.”

Of course Olenna wasn’t always the Tyrells’ butler and Margaery knows she served the government in her youth, but she never went digging out of respect for Olenna’s privacy. But she’s not sure she likes how much her work is bringing out Olenna’s ruthless side. She pulls the drive free and clutches it tightly. “If Tywin already knows he could be prepared for just this sort of thing.”

“Use it, and sooner rather than later,” says Olenna. “You don’t leave weapons lying around for your enemies to learn about and counter. You strike with them as soon as you’re strong enough.”

Margaery just holds the USB stick close to her leg, feeling the plastic edges digging into her palm. “I’m going to sleep on it.”

“Sleep on it, then mail Tywin Lannister a copy of that first thing in the morning,” says Olenna. Her book comes back out and she thumbs to the page where she left off.

Margaery climbs up the stairs to her room—once her parents’, but now hers, still feeling of comfort and love and security. Her first day home after leaving the mountains, she’d dug an old blanket out of the back of the closet because she was cold but when she unfolded it the smell of perfume hit her, so overwhelming it was almost like she was six again, being hugged by her mother after school. And for the first time the memory wasn’t a knife through her heart, but a sad, sweet feeling that didn’t linger too long. It surprised her as much as it did Olenna, who had already made up a room on the other side of the house. 

She strips her sweaty Underarmour, runs through the shower, and dresses for bed, all while keeping the drive in the corner of her mind. She lies awake under the covers, trying to organize her second and third thoughts. She wants to protect Sansa—the city—but releasing this kind of information could backfire badly. Tywin could make assumptions about the source, he could escalate instead of back down, he could turn into a vendetta instead of just another target. She’s betting he’s the kind of man who will do anything to sweep a scandal under the carpet but you can never tell how someone will react when their children are threatened. She might be inviting a war.

*

That night she dreams of trying to climb the mountains, but she can’t find handholds and the earth slides under her feet. The top grows farther and farther away and the harder she struggles, the more dirt and ice and rocks tumble loose, forming a river that sweeps her away. Her body hurtles towards the knifing blue edges of the glacier, the deeply carved crevasses, there’s nothing she can do—

She comes to full alertness in a matter of seconds, hand creeping towards the dagger under her pillow out of some fearful instinct. But she’s alone in her room and it’s a few hours after sunrise, judging from the light. Her hand makes a fist, still wanting the reassuring weight of a weapon while the dream lingers in her system.

The rest of the day is as mundane as possible for someone like her—workout, refuel, research, avoid Olenna’s attempts to get her to socialize. As evening approaches she begins to plot out where in the city she’ll set up watch. Already she has the police scanner going; not much tonight, just a car crash backing up traffic all the way down Guildhall Avenue. But then her ears prick at the mention of a name: _Stark_. 

The volume goes up while she pulls on her suit, trying to glean details from the codes, the silences in between radio calls. The tumbler is already plotting the fastest route to Mother of Mercy where the ambulance is en route when she jumps in. She drives as close to the edge of reckless as she dares. It could be coincidence, but she can’t afford to believe in coincidence where the Starks are involved, not with what’s at stake. Not when she heard Cersei Lannister describe this very scenario not twenty-four hours ago.

At the hospital Margaery watches from above. The ambulance arrives less than a minute after her, closely followed by a police car with lights rolling. The stretcher that rolls out carries Catelyn Stark’s bloody body, followed by uniformed officers. Another police car follows, then a sedan, and finally a taxi from which Sansa Stark sprints into the hospital. 

There’s nothing she can do while the family waits so she takes the tumbler to the scene of the accident, wanting to see for herself. Catelyn Stark’s car is still in the intersection, crushed along the driver’s side where it was T-boned. The other car hit her while she was crossing, coming directly out of its lane. She can see a traffic cam on one of the lights and notes it for later video retrieval. There are officers everywhere, no doubt on behalf of Chief Stark, fire department crews cleaning up the debris, onlookers pointing their phones. 

More chatter, this time on the frequency the hospital uses to communicate with ambulances. The driver is coming in with nonfatal injuries; no lights or sirens for him. It’s back to the hospital again, Margaery wishing in the back of her mind for an airborn option to get around the city, and then switching her suit for a pilfered set of scrubs to sneak into the driver’s room. The officer stationed at the entrance barely glances at her palmed ID and she walks right in, pulling on a surgical mask and cap as soon as the door closes.

The driver is on decent painkillers for a broken wrist and some deep facial lacerations, but for ramming headfirst into another car he’s remarkably intact. She texts his name from his chart for Olenna to run background and it comes back with a record, mostly for theft and illegal gambling. 

Margaery replaces the chart, makes sure her mask is firmly in place and her hair tucked all the way under the cap, then viciously yanks the IV from the driver’s arm. “Wake up, Joseph.”

He jolts up, but she muffles his pained cries with a hand over his mouth. “ _Fuck_ , fuck, what was that for—”

“Shhh,” Margaery croons. She leans closer. “Joseph. Calm down. Are you calm?”

He breathes harshly against her palm, eyes darting from her to the door. He nods. 

“Good. Don’t call out. You’ll be dead before you can make a sound.” Slowly she removes her hand, and when she’s confident he won’t squeal, she pulls it back all the way. “Joseph, who hired you to kill Catelyn Stark?”

His eyes go comically wide. “What? I mean no, no one hired me. It was an accident.”

“You owe a lot of people a lot of money. _Lannister_ people. I’ll ask one more time. Who. Hired. You?”

Joseph opens his mouth but Margaery interrupts. “Think carefully. Your employer is not here right now. I am. Now answer.”

Joseph swallows once. “Joffrey Baratheon.”

Her jaw clenches, hard enough to make the mask shift. Joseph’s breathing starts to become erratic as he notices her anger. But all she says is, “Don't leave town, Joseph.” She draws the privacy curtain around his bed and leaves, doing her best not to run.

*

She has one more stop before she hunts down Joffrey Baratheon. The hospital has a small terraced garden on the fifth floor where patients can go for fresh air; it’s there she finds Robb and Sansa Stark, hugging each other silently. 

Robb yelps and nearly falls over when she hops over the railing in front of them, fully suited once more. Sansa regards her coldly, eyes red-rimmed, hands crushing a used handkerchief.

“How is she?” Margaery asks.

Robb still has one hand clutching his heart so Sansa replies. “Still in surgery.”

“I’m sorry.”

Robb swivels his head between them. “You two—know each other?” He seems to perform some quick mental math, then turns towards his sister, agog. “Sansa, is Batman your source?” 

“Could you give us a minute?” Sansa asks, still focused on Margaery.

“Sans—”

She touches his arm. “It’ll be okay. This won’t take long.”

He lingers, eyes sweeping Margaery from head to toe. “I’ll…I’ll be right inside the door if you need me.”

They both wait for him to leave, ignoring the backwards glances he keeps tossing over his shoulder. 

“It wasn’t an accident, was it,” says Sansa as soon as they’re alone.

A minute shake of the head from Margaery. “Joffrey Baratheon hired the man who hit your mother.”

Sansa stalks forward and delivers a double-barreled shove against Margaery’s shoulders. “Where were you?” she demands. She shoves Margaery a second time, harder.

Margaery flows with the impact, moving backwards until she’s almost to the parapet. “I’m sorry,” she says again.

“This was not supposed to happen,” Sansa shouts at her. “It was _me_. I’m the one who wrote all the articles. You brought me information and I wrote them. Where _were you_?” She tries to shove Margaery again but this time Margaery catches her by the wrists. There’s nothing she can say; she was watching the wrong people, listening to the wrong information. It’s her fault. 

“Joffrey will pay,” she promises Sansa, gentling her grip.

Sansa yanks her arms free, wraps them protectively around her waist. She’s pale from grief and exhaustion. “Fine. But when this is over, we’re through. My father was right.”

Margaery doesn’t let Sansa see how much it hurts to hear her say the words, just pulls her grappling gun from her belt. Sansa turns her back on Margaery, not bothering to watch her climb up, away into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really apologize for the delay between chapters. I got...stuck.


	11. Chapter 11

Margaery is going to find Joffrey Baratheon and make him pay and pay and pay until he is empty and hollow and broken. That is what she wants. It is absolutely not what she must do.

She knows where the boy likes to go thanks to tabloid coverage of his escapades. A quick twitter search confirms that he’s been seen at Dragonpit, headed into a back room with other rich kids of King’s Landing. She drives there in a cold rage and forces open the delivery entrance in the back. The club is dark, sliced through here and there by neon light, and very loud. She attracts less attention than she should, stalking through the halls until she finds the back rooms. Joffrey is in the biggest and most lavish, holding court for mostly young women and a few young men in expensive suits. 

At first everyone just stares at her, a weird stranger in black bursting through the heavy velvet curtain partitioning off the room. “Get out,” Margaery rasps.

One of the men rises quickly from his spot on the end of the couch and she can see he’s private security, dressed to blend in. He reaches for her and she clamps down on his arm, dislocating it with a sharp jerk. She forces him down and knees him in the head, knocking him unconscious on his back. The partiers start screaming and the guards start swarming her—one of the women sitting with Joffrey, too, aiming for her head with a champagne bottle. She bats it away, punches with a right cross, a quick elbow strike, ducking, knee to the solar plexus, movements tight and efficient, weaving through the chaos. 

Joffrey is last, pushing himself back into his seat, fumbling at his waistband for a gun. She grabs it out of his hand, ejects the mag, and works the slide before tossing it into the far corner. “No!” he shrieks, flailing at her. Contemptuously, she snags him by the collar and drags him from the room. People are fleeing from her in earnest now, making way as she abducts a screaming, crying Joffrey Baratheon.

Once outside she hooks him to her belt and rides her grappler five stories up to the roof. She grabs Joffrey by the lapels and holds him at the very edge. “You hired Joseph Brody to kill Catelyn Stark,” she says through gritted teeth, the synthesizer turning her voice into a distorted growl.

“No, I—”

She shakes him bodily. “Don’t lie to me. Brody confessed. Why target Catelyn Stark?”

“I didn’t—”

She nearly shoves him over; now almost all of his body is dangling in open air with only his heels still on the roof proper. “Do. Not. _Lie_.”

“Okay! Yes, I hired him to make it look like an accident. I wanted to make a point to the Starks. I wanted them distracted from hurting my family,” Joffrey babbles.

She reels him in a few inches. “Who ordered you to do it?” 

Joffrey shakes his head. “It was my idea.” He throws up his hands, beseeching, when he feels her start to push him back. “I swear! I swear it! It was my idea. I heard my mother and uncle talking and decided to do it, to show that I could.”

She wants to throw him from the roof, smash him in the face, make him fearful, the way she saw Catelyn Stark’s family in fear for her life. It’s hard to bury the ugly impulses clenching her muscles, stoking her rage, but she does it. Slowly, she pulls him in.

“What are you going to do to me?” Joffrey asks, risking a glance at the concrete below. He screams as they both plummet to ground level, cutting off abruptly when the grappling line jerks them to a stop. Margaery knocks him out with a quick hit from a tranquilizer dart she pulls from her belt and shoves him in the tumbler with his hands bound behind his back. His insensate body gets dumped on the steps of police headquarters, a sign around his neck reading _deliver to Ned Stark_ and his confession taped to the back.

*

Morning finds her hunched over her computer terminal, oblivious to the sunlight flooding in from the cave mouth. Joffrey, she can admit now with only the hollow dregs of rage left over in her system, might have been a mistake. She can only hope the Lannisters won’t connect her too closely to Sansa or the rest of the Starks. 

Olenna descends in the elevator, breakfast tray in hand. “You look terrible,” she observes. 

“I feel terrible,” says Margaery, automatically chugging her nutrient shake first. Olenna, bless her, seems to have added a shot of espresso. Margaery runs a hand through her disheveled hair once she’s done, feeling marginally better. She only left her desk to remove her suit and change into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, now rumpled from her long night, and her brain and body are suffering in equal measure. Yet this is nothing, she reminds herself, compared to the sleep deprivation she once endured as part of her training. 

“Was it worth it to feel terrible?” Olenna asks, already reading her monitor displays over her shoulder.

Margaery doesn’t bother to reply but stands up and bends at the waist to grab her calves, enjoying the stretch after sitting down all night.

“You made a mistake.”

Margaery shoots her a look from her bent position but doesn’t respond, knowing how futile that would be.

“And you’ve spent all night cooped up in here. So tell me what you’re planning to do and I’ll tell you if it’s stupid.”

Margaery very deliberately stretches again, taking her time to work out the stiffness, before sitting down again and pointing to her research. “I can’t afford to have Sansa—any of the Starks further associated with Batwoman. So I’ll have to do what I can as Margaery.”

Olenna skims the lists of Lannister assets and nods minutely. “Good. Perhaps if you act like a businesswoman, you’ll find that make a decent one after all.”

*

Tywin Lannister hasn’t stopped pursuing legal action against Sansa and the Tribune for a second, not even to give her a respite while her mother is in hospital. Margaery expected no less from him, but that doesn’t stop her from despising him for it. Dark thoughts of revenge against Tywin plague her through her painfully cold but invigorating shower, receding only through force of will. She takes her time picking out a suit, eventually settling on slim black trousers, nearly sheer green blouse, and a rather severely cut single-button black blazer. She wants the impression of sharpness, a warning to those who would attempt to handle her.

Her phone rings just as she’s about to enter the garage. To her very great surprise, it’s Sansa Stark, although she can’t recall ever giving Sansa the number for her civilian life. “Hello?” she asks warily.

“Sorry to bother you,” says Sansa, and Margaery can tell she’s been crying from the thickness of her voice. “I convinced your assistant to put me through.” Margaery will have to get the full story out of her assistant later knowing that whatever Sansa said, it must have been dire enough to get her assistant to break with Margaery’s list of approved callers.

“Not at all. What can I do for you, Ms. Stark?”

“Is there a good time for us to meet today?”

Margaery checks her watch even though she knows the time to the minute. “I’ll be free in an hour,” she says, though she’d planned on meeting with the head of her legal team for at least two.

“Should I come by your office?”

Margaery knows she should say yes, but she wants at least one thing in Sansa’s life to be accommodating, so instead she says, “I’m afraid I’m on the move quite a bit today. Tell me where you’ll be in an hour and I’ll meet you there.”

Sansa hesitates, then gives Margaery her home address. “I appreciate this,” she says.

“Of course,” Margaery says, keeping her voice polite but curious in a detached sort of way. She hangs up and makes a beeline for the Bugatti Veyron, suddenly feeling the need for a very aggressive drive into the city.

*

Of course Margaery has been to Sansa’s building several times, but this is her first time actually entering through the front door like a normal person. It doesn’t escape her how strange her life is that she considers it a novel experience to walk through this building instead of landing on it.

Sansa is waiting at her apartment door after buzzing Margaery up. She looks impossibly pale, her fair skin turned wan and almost brittle with grief. There are dark bags under her eyes and her hair is in a loose braid. She looks very young, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a plain white cotton shirt. They are a study in opposites, casual to formal. “Thank you for coming,” says Sansa, letting Margaery cross the threshold. “Can I get you anything? Tea?”

“Please don’t trouble yourself,” says Margaery, casting a subtle eye about the apartment. “I heard what happened to your mother on the news. I’m very sorry.”

Sansa fiddles around with her teapot anyway, adding water, sorting through several tins of loose leaf. “So you must be wondering why I called you.”

“The thought did cross my mind.”

Sansa finally turns around, leaning against the kitchen counter. She gestures to her sofa. “Please, sit down.”

Margaery does so, wanting Sansa to get to the point but also wanting her to feel comfortable, or at least safe enough to speak freely. She doesn’t cross her legs, doesn’t give off a hint of impatient body language. She makes herself still, unobtrusive.

Sansa’s eyes glaze for a second; whether from exhaustion or deep thought is impossible to tell. “My father’s still at the hospital. Mum’s out of surgery but they don’t know…” Her hands clench the countertop. “It wasn’t an accident. My mother. Someone hired a man to hurt her.”

Margaery feigns surprise but doesn’t overplay it. 

“It was Joffrey Baratheon.” Sansa’s voice burns with hatred as she says it, the same hatred Margaery felt last night. It’s unsettling on Sansa, a dark spectre clashing against her brightness.

“Joffrey Baratheon hired someone to crash a car into your mother?” Margaery asks, trying not to relive the nightclub in her mind, trying to stay focused on Sansa and what she needs.

Sansa nods. Her mouth works, as though she’s suppressing something. Perhaps the urge to cry, perhaps some other emotion. “And my father is going to go after him. When he finally leaves the hospital. I know him. He won’t stop for anything.” She looks up from her sock feet, right at Margaery. “I know Mayor Baratheon is an old friend of dad’s but he married a Lannister. And my dad is about to put Tywin Lannister’s grandson in jail.”

“Your father is a singular officer.”

“He’s going to get himself killed.” Sansa finally joins Margaery on the couch, sitting on the opposite end with her hands in her lap, fingertips digging into her thighs. “I can’t lose them both. If mum—”

“Sansa, you shouldn’t think that way—”

“If mum dies,” Sansa continues in a steady voice. “I can’t lose my dad too. Do you remember the policeman’s ball?”

The non sequitur throws Margaery a bit. “Yes,” she says cautiously. 

“You said—” And Sansa pauses, closing her eyes, as if drawing up the memory. “You said if my father ever needed anything, you would back him.”

Margaery does remember. It seems so long ago, needling Sansa and flirting with her in turns in the back of Margaery’s car. “I meant it,” she says evenly.

“This isn’t something my father can do on his own. I know he believes he can. He believes in an honest police force and the legal process but…”

Margaery picks up the thread. “But we both know idealism only gets you so far.”

Sansa nods. “Please. Whatever you can do, whoever you have influence with, can you try to make sure he doesn’t get hurt?”

“For Ned Stark, anything,” says Margaery. She watches Sansa, how tension still limns her shoulders and rigid spine. “Your father once did me a very a great kindness.”

Sansa looks her in the eye. “I know.”

Margaery isn’t surprised that Sansa knows; she’s close to her father and quite brilliant besides. Whether she remembers or simply put the pieces together, it’s obvious she’s known for quite some time. “Then you must know how sincere I am when I say I will do my best to protect your father any way I can.”

Sansa’s body unfurls, just the slightest. “I do,” she says softly.

“Is there anything else?” Margaery offers. “I know you’ve had your problems with Tywin Lannister as well.”

“I can handle that myself,” Sansa replies, sharp and defensive. 

“Ms. Stark, forgive me for being indelicate but—perhaps you can’t.” 

Sansa’s eyes go wide and her skin takes on a flush of anger. It's a terrible incongruity that it makes her look healthier, more alive. “That’s none of your business.”

“You’ve asked for my help with your father, and to me that includes protecting his family, which means you. Consider it, at least?” Margaery asks.

Sansa jerks her head in half a nod, signaling acceptance.

Margaery digs in her clutch and pulls out a card. She comes up with a fountain pen too, and scratches out numbers on the back. “This is my lawyer’s number. Call him and tell him I sent you. He’ll give you a fair rate and the best legal advice in King’s Landing.”

Almost reluctantly, Sansa accepts the card, but accepts it she does. It’s a start, at least. The kettle whistles its shrill alert and Sansa moves back to the stove, automatically going through the motions of measuring out leaves and steeping them. 

“I believe that’s my cue,” says Margaery, also standing. She pulls her jacket straight and smooths down her pants with one fluid movement. “My direct line is on the back of the card. Don’t hesitate to use it. We’re partners now, after all.”

That gets a tiny smile out of Sansa. “Partners,” she says, making it sound like _thank you_.


	12. Chapter 12

Sansa isn’t quite sure what to make of having a partner. She’s not entirely sure “partner” is even the right word for what she and Margaery are doing. Margaery is off greasing palms and hobknobbing or however it is that the filthy rich get their way and Sansa is back at the hospital, flipping the business card Margaery gave her between her fingers.

Luwin has been extremely understanding about letting her work from the hospital; perhaps too understanding. While she’s here she’s not in and out of the office, associating her name and face with them. Tywin Lannister has officially sued her and the paper for libel and intentional infliction of emotional distress. Dacey Mormont assured her that as long as she could show everything she wrote was properly researched and backed up by facts, they had nothing to worry about. But still Sansa worries. Just because all the facts are on her side is no guarantee the law will be as well. If she’s learned anything from her time at the newspaper, it’s that.

Her mother would probably tell her that that’s just the way the justice system has to be while human beings are still capable of error. Her father would probably scowl and say that’s no excuse, everyone in the justice system should be held to the highest possible standard. Sansa just wants them to be able to argue again, alive and whole at the kitchen table while Arya steadfastly ignores them to bury her nose in a comic book and Bran and Rickon fight over the last pancake and Robb goes on and on about the latest trial in the news and Jon reads over Arya’s shoulder.

Sansa sighs, and closes her laptop. She’s been staring at a blinking cursor for twenty minutes now and can’t seem to conjure a single word. Her mother responds with the same blank silence, laid out in her hospital bed next to Sansa’s chair. 

She and Jon and Robb had put their heads together the night before last and contrived it so one of them was always with her, especially with her dad having to go back to HQ to deal with the Joffrey situation. Arya had very indignantly wormed her way in on the plan, resentful at being left out of an adult conversation. Jon is working the Joffrey thing too, and Robb has his own caseload to worry about, and Arya is at school because their father insisted, so it’s Sansa’s shift. 

She folds her arms on her mum’s bed and rests her head on them, staring up at Catelyn’s face. “Could really use your advice right now,” she murmurs, and closes her eyes, just so she can try to think for a few minutes.

The next thing she knows she’s being shaken awake and Arya is telling her to get up. “It’s my turn,” she says.

Sansa sits up groggily, rubbing grit out of her eyes. Automatically she looks to her mum, but there’s been no change. Of course there hasn’t; it’s only been a day or so since the doctors managed to stabilize her. They’re still waiting for the swelling in her brain to subside. “No, I’m okay,” says Sansa, sitting up straight so that her vertebrae pop in a satisfying sequence down her back.

“I want to,” Arya says, quiet but stubborn. She picks at the blanket covering Catelyn from the waist down.

Sansa watches her, that baby face that seems to resist getting older with the rest of Arya even though she’s nearly ready for university, the unruly hair her sister seems to have brushed for once. “Okay. Thanks,” says Sansa. “Who’s with Bran and Rickon?”

“Ms. Nancy,” says Arya, referring to their next door neighbor who’s been living in her building since before any of the Stark children were born.

“Okay,” Sansa says again. She checks her email on her phone; nothing except some condolences from coworkers and friends, and a message from Luwin that she really shouldn’t feel obligated to turn in any articles even though she’d insisted that she would keep to her old timetable. What she really wants is an update from Margaery Tyrell. But perhaps it’s best she doesn’t know, if only in the name of plausible deniability. They’re definitely not partners if this is going to be Sansa’s level of involvement. She watches as Arya settles on the couch opposite the bed, pulling out her laptop. “Did you eat dinner yet?”

Arya just pulls out a packet of crisps and a can of Norn-Bru. 

Sansa opens her mouth to say how unhealthy that is, Arya really should go get a salad or a piece of fruit from the commissary, but then closes it. They’re all coping in their own ways and if Arya needs to eat junk food and drink alarmingly orange caffeinated soda and watch what are no doubt going to be violent action movies for a few days, then so be it. Salad can wait. “Jon should be here by eight. I’ll be home.”

Arya just nods, already wearing a set of headphones mum got her for her last birthday.

Sansa lingers in the doorway, watching Sansa start her movie, though her dark eyes flick constantly towards Catelyn. It’s reassuring, in its own way, to watch Arya be a bit of a brat, just as she always is. Of all of them, she seems to be handling things the best, at least on the outside. Eventually Sansa makes herself leave, taking the train back to her parents’ house to spend the night with Bran and Rickon. This is not how she wanted to spend more time with her family, but the least she can do is make sure her father doesn’t have to worry about doing anything but his job and keep everyone else fed and clothed and functioning. It’s what her mum would want her to do.

*

Sansa wakes up feeling a bit hollow from going to bed late and not sleeping very well. Her phone is chiming at her and it takes her a minute to realize what the sound is, since it’s still an hour too early for her alarm. She punches at the screen, which is displaying a half dozen texts, and tries to focus on the words. Some very excited all-caps group texts, and a news alert about—Sansa sits bolt upright in bed, furiously swiping at the screen to read the full article.

 _Margaery Tyrell to acquire_ Royal Tribune, it reads, then just a few paragraphs that don’t give many details other than that the sale will be finalized by end of week for a rumored $110 million and the newspaper is being sold separately from its entertainment group. Sansa has to read and re-read a few times for it to sink in. Margaery Tyrell is dropping over one hundred million dollars on the paper. On _Sansa’s_ paper. It can’t be coincidence. 

She hurriedly gets dressed, makes sure Bran, Rickon, and Arya are okay to get to school, and grabs the keys to her dad's car so she can drive out to the Palisades—Margaery’s neighborhood.

*

She wants to pound on the front door of Tyrell Manor but a) the door looks fairly solid and as though it would just hurt her hand and b) she wants to face Margaery Tyrell calmly and logically so she can’t accuse Sansa of being emotional. Sansa hates being called emotional. 

It takes a few moments, but eventually someone answers the door after she rings the bell. She’s surprised there isn’t security crawling all over the place, like there was the night of Margaery’s welcome back party. Maybe that was more for the guests’ benefit than Margaery’s. Maybe no one was expecting visitors before the start of business hours, but if Sansa is waking Margaery up from doing whatever it is one does with supermodels, then too bad.

“Ah, Ms. Stark,” says an older woman in a business casual suit that somehow still manages to suggest butler. “How may I help you?”

Sansa doesn’t bother to ask how Margaery’s butler knows who she is, just says politely but very firmly, “I’m here to see Ms. Tyrell, please. It’s about the paper.”

The old woman appraises her and Sansa feels almost like she needs to come to attention. “Why don’t you wait in the parlor?” she says. It hardly seems like a suggestion.

Sansa follows her into a room she recognizes from the party, though it’s obviously empty of people now and has all its furniture back in place. She takes a seat on the edge of a settee upholstered in silk and resists the urge to snoop through the contents of the room. Not that there seems to be anything personal on display; the room looks like a show piece, carefully decorated and meticulously neat. Sansa is willing to bet Margaery hasn’t actually read a single one of the books artfully scattered about. She couldn’t imagine living in a house that seems to be part museum.

She’s just starting to reach for the large coffee table book on Yunkish architecture—it seems so impersonal, revealing nothing at all about its owner—when she hears soft footfalls and then Margaery is in the doorway. Sansa has always seen Margaery completely put together so she was hardly expecting anything less, even this early in the morning, but instead Margaery is in black tights and sleeveless athletic stretchy top, her hair in a tight ponytail that highlights the sharper angles of her face. In such form-fitting clothing Sansa can see that all the carefully tailored gowns and suits have hidden quite an athletic build. Margaery has a towel over her shoulder and a water bottle in her hand and she’s clearly been exerting herself, a mental image Sansa dismisses almost as immediately as it forms. “Ms. Stark, what a pleasure to see you this morning,” she says.

The words snap Sansa out of staring at the heavy muscle in Margaery’s arms. “Why are you buying the Tribune?” she demands.

Margaery blinks, searching for a measure of equanimity. “Did Olenna offer you anything? Tea perhaps?”

“No. Why are you buying the Tribune?” Sansa asks impatiently.

“I really must ask her to be more accommodating to guests,” Margaery says, mostly to herself. She seats herself on the sofa opposite the one Sansa has just vacated. “And to answer your question, I’m buying the Tribune because it’s quite a good newspaper and I think it will be a good investment, especially given I’m paying twenty million below its actual valuation.”

Sansa just folds her arms, the very picture of skepticism.

“Yes, of course you influenced my decision,” says Margaery, surprising Sansa with the readiness of her admission. “But I wouldn’t have done it if I thought I was going to lose money.”

“It’s a newspaper, of course it’s losing money,” Sansa argues.

“Well yes, but with a few structural changes and some modernization, it should become profitable again.” 

“You mean layoffs.”

“Regrettable, but necessary.”

Sansa wants to bury her hands in her hair and pull very hard. “I asked you to look after my _father_. I told you I can take care of myself.”

Margaery’s face hardens from pleasant chat to something indefinable, almost angry. It reminds Sansa just how much of the charming playgirl routine must be an act; Margaery Tyrell is far shrewder, far more coldly calculating than she would like the world to believe. “Perhaps this is just as much about your father and me as it is about you. Perhaps I still owe your father a debt. And perhaps you should accept that I am about to save the Tribune from expending enormous sums of money on a legal defense when it most certainly cannot afford to do so and simply say _thank you_.”

Sansa’s jaw clenches so tightly her molars squeak. She breathes in through her nostrils, looking as though her exhalation might come out on fire. “Thank you,” she says through her teeth. She spins around and does her best not to stomp away on the luxuriously thick Myrish carpet. Margaery makes no attempt to follow her and she’s at least genuinely thankful for that. If Margaery Tyrell wants to own a newspaper, let her. As long as Sansa can continue to publish articles without interference, they’ll get along just fine.


	13. Chapter 13

Once again, Margaery Tyrell is all anyone can talk about. Even though she’s splitting most of her time between the hospital and her apartment, Sansa still can’t avoid emails from HR on what the changeover means for employees or texts from anxious coworkers worried they’ll be fired. There’s so much speculation about why Margaery bought the paper, if she’s going to go into business for herself separate from Tyrell Enterprises, if this is just the first overture in TE’s attempts to create an entertainment arm, on and on and on.

And her mum still hasn’t woken up. The swelling is almost completely gone; her doctors say it’s just a waiting game now. That is the main thing occupying Sansa’s mind now, not Margaery. Margaery is a distraction, or so she keeps reminding herself. The sale is going through and in a few days, Margaery Tyrell will be the publisher of _The Royal Tribune_. Hopefully, also in a few days, Catelyn Stark will be awake and on the road to recovery.

Arya finds her in the kitchen of the family home, working aimlessly on her laptop. It’s been five days since the accident, four days since they stabilized Catelyn. That’s how they all track time now, accident plus days. What life was like before, and what life is like after. Arya puts a mug of tea by her computer and reads over her shoulder until Sansa realizes what she’s doing and shoves down the screen.

“What, it’s not like I can’t read it in a newspaper in a few days anyway,” says Arya. She nudges the tea. “It’s getting cold.”

Sansa lifts the mug to her lips out of politeness and finds that Arya has made her favorite Northern breakfast with a dash of milk. “Thanks,” she says, somewhat surprised.

Arya shrugs. “You’re helping out. I might as well too.”

Sansa, who is fairly tired from running several loads of laundry, cooking dinner plus tomorrow’s school lunch for Bran and Rickon, trying to keep tabs on everyone, and researching her article, feels an almost embarrassing amount of gratification at hearing this. “How’s mum?”

Arya shrugs again. She prefers to visit Catelyn on her own, so Sansa had brought the boys by after school and Arya visited later that evening, after dinner. “No change. What’re you working on?”

Sansa pushes the screen back up. “Going back to work tomorrow. Another reporter’s been filling in for me on the Crakehall trial, but I’m getting back up to speed.”

Arya narrows her eyes. “That’s the trial where the Lannisters bribed the first judge, right?”

“Mm-hm,” Sansa says a bit absently, already scanning the top document on her screen.

“And that’s why you’re getting sued by Tywin Lannister?”

Sansa frowns at her. “Where did you hear that?”

“The internet is a thing, you know. And anyway you’re all mum and dad talk about these days.” Her lower lip sticks out petulantly, a habit which she fiercely denies but has been giving her away since early childhood.

“I know I’m stressing them out,” Sansa admits. “But I can’t stop doing my job.”

“You shouldn’t have to!” Arya says. Sansa is taken aback by the rather vehement tone in her voice. “Just because you’re not Jon or Robb and work with the police doesn’t mean you should stop. They don’t have to stop. That’s not fair.”

Sansa watches as her sister smolders in her chair, wearing that dark expression she gets when she’s angry. She’s always had a bit of a temper; once it gets going it burns long and steady, as Sansa well knows from their childhood fights. Even though Sansa was a teenager and Arya still losing baby teeth, they used to clash something awful. Arya would constantly get into her things and try to horn in on her business while Sansa did her best to deliberately exclude wild, unruly Arya from her life. Sometimes she wishes she could take those years back. “Arya, is everything okay?”

Arya slumps back in her chair, arms folded. “Had a fight with dad.”

“What about?”

She glares at the table. “At the hospital. I told him I wanted to apply to the police academy. He said I’m not allowed.”

“Oh.” Sansa isn’t terribly surprised. Whatever Jon does, Arya wants to do, and she’s always worshipped their father. “What about university?”

“That’s what dad said,” Arya replies darkly, looking like she’s about to bolt.

“Don’t the police prefer it you have a degree?” Sansa says, trying to mollify her.

Arya’s hackles go down, at least for the time being. “Yeah. But I don’t want to wait that long.”

“The police will always be there. You should experience uni with kids your own age. Aren’t any of your mates from school thinking of applying to the same places as you?”

Arya resumes her shrugging. “Dad said I’m not allowed to be a police officer no matter what. It’s too dangerous.”

“I could…” Sansa hesitates. She’s never been the one Arya comes to with her problems, and she’s not completely sure how to handle this. “I could talk to dad, if you want?” It’s what their mum would do, anyway.

Arya’s face lightens just a shade. “Yeah, that would be cool I guess.”

“I’ll see him tomorrow after work. Did you finish your homework?” She expects Arya to revert to her old self, snapping at Sansa that she’s not a kid who needs watching, possibly stomping up to her room. But Arya just nods, slides out of her chair, grabs a cookie from the jar on the counter, and slinks out of the kitchen. Sansa almost can’t believe they didn’t argue. She doesn’t like to think that Arya is forcing herself to grow up a little faster, leave behind the surly teenager act a little sooner, because of the accident.

Before bed she shoots a quick email to Luwin reminding him that she’ll have an article ready for printing after court tomorrow, please don’t send the reporter who’s been subbing for her. Sleep still doesn’t come easily, but at least the promise of work takes the edge off. She’ll uncover the truth about this trial and Selmy and make sure Roland Crakehall stays in jail and ruin whatever the Lannisters have planned. Targeting her family is the last mistake the Lannisters will ever make.

*

Luwin wakes her up early in the morning, just a few minutes shy of her alarm. She still feels disoriented, waking up in her childhood bedroom, and it takes her a minute to remember her phone is on the opposite side of her bed than usual. “I just read your email. Don’t feel like you need to rush anything. Take a few more days. Be with your family," he says.

“I appreciate it, but I’m ready to come back. I’ll be in before nine,” she says.

“If you’re worried about using up vacation days—”

“I really prefer to get back to work. I’ve been sitting around for days and this would help me feel useful.”

Luwin sighs, and there’s a long, uncomfortable pause. “Sansa, I’ve already assigned Alan as your permanent replacement.”

She sits up in bed, all vestiges of sleep washed away. “Excuse me? I was gone less than a week.”

“He’s doing just fine with the trial. Why don’t you come see me today and we’ll talk about other assignments.”

“This is my trial,” says Sansa, still not quite comprehending what Luwin is doing. “I broke the original Marbrand story. I’ve been following Crakehall from day one.”

“I know this is—”

“I’ll be in your office in an hour,” she says, and hangs up as savagely as she can, which is not at all, and she curses her smart phone and its highly unsatisfying little digital buttons. She dresses in a hurry, glad that she’d thought to shower and pack her work bag last night, and is running outside, startling the officers on guard duty in their unmarked car. Sansa had drawn the line at having an officer follow her everywhere she went, arguing that the Lannisters were hardly likely to try anything else after Joffrey’s taped admission that he orchestrated Catelyn’s accident. The compromise was having officers stationed outside of all their homes, at least until things calm down.

“Ms. Stark,” one of them just manages to get out.

“I’m going to the office, so you call that in if you want,” she says, jangling her car keys at him. She hops into her dad’s car, hoping she’s going in early enough to avoid the worst of rush hour. Normally she’d walk the several blocks to the nearest train station but she’s gambling that this will be faster. Sure enough she’s gauged the timing to a nicety and walks into Luwin’s office almost exactly one hour after hanging up. She has just enough self control not to slam the door, instead latching it softly and sitting down uninvited in front of the desk. He looks as though he wants to pull his hair out.

“The trial starts in ninety minutes. I can be there in thirty. I’m prepared, I’ve had Alan send me his notes. You can’t take me off this trial," she says, not giving him a chance to go first.

He places his hands on his desk, slumped slightly over both arms. “It looks bad, Sansa, having you covering a trial in which you’ve claimed the Lannisters have a stake after there was an alleged attempt on your mother’s life orchestrated by a Lannister. You can’t claim to be objective.”

“This trial is too important for me to screw up with bias,” she replies indignantly.

“It wouldn’t matter if you were the second coming of ethics in journalism,” Luwin replies, a bit of snap in his voice. “All that matters is what it looks like, and it would look like you were using the paper to grind a personal axe against the Lannister family.”

“It’s not my fault they’re all rotten to the core and a bunch of major news stories just happen to center around them!” Sansa says, but deep down the seed that Luwin is right has taken root. She honestly hadn’t contemplated not diving right back in at work, picking up where she left off. She was so consumed with getting back on track, not collapsing while her family needed her. Slowly, she sinks back into her chair.

“There are plenty of other assignments,” says Luwin. “But there’s one in particular that I need you for.”

Ruthlessly, Sansa stomps out the last embers of her desire to struggle for her story. “Okay. What is it?”

*

For all that Margaery Tyrell is a billionaire, it’s well known that she’s never actually owned a business by herself, and so it is that Sansa finds her in one of the building’s nicest executive conference rooms with reams and reams of paper spread out before her and a small team of bustling advisors getting her up to speed on what it is to own a newspaper.

“Ah, Ms. Stark,” says Margaery, swiveling in her chair at the head of the table as Sansa enters.

“Was this your idea?” Sansa asks, her tone just short of demanding. She stops at the opposite end of the table.

Margaery glances at her advisors and tips her head, sending them single file out the door. She only speaks when it shuts behind the last of them. “As a matter of fact, it was Mr. Luwin’s. I would prefer this changeover to happen as seamlessly as possible but some of my corporate officers think my image needs…rehabilitation.” She says it wryly, as they’re both well aware of the string of articles documenting her partying her way through King’s Landing in the weeks following her return. Not so much anymore, Sansa thinks, but every once in a while a new photo of Margaery with a beautiful young face or two will crop up, just like that night at the hotel, followed by a week of giggling gossip. She concedes that Margaery’s officers might have a point.

“So, a profile to go in the Sunday magazine insert,” Margaery says briskly. “And of course I asked Mr. Luwin to send you, based on our previous working relationship.”

Sansa doesn’t know why she feels like blushing just from the way Margaery says _working relationship_. They haven’t spoken since she stormed into Tyrell Manor and tried to tell Margaery off for overstepping the boundaries of their pact to protect Ned. The number of times she’s turned Margaery’s business card over in her fingers, wanting to call and—not apologize, not really. She’s not sorry for reacting badly to Margaery interfering in her life. But she’s afraid she might have put Margaery off of their deal, and for her father, she’ll play penitent without hesitation.

"You should really be using the magazine's staff," Sansa points out.  She doesn't want to step on toes any more than she already has, riling up the senior metro reporters.

"I'm familiar with you."

"You're going to have to get familiar with a lot of reporters fairly soon, I think."

Margaery's head tilt is as good as a touché.  Still, she won't concede.  "Consider this a favor, then.  And it never hurts to have your boss' boss owe you a favor."

Slowly, reluctantly, Sansa moves a few chairs down the table, pen and notepad automatically coming out of her satchel.  "What did you have in mind."

"Something to reassure my CEO that I'm not about to run the paper into the ground and set fire to the remains," says Margaery.  Sansa thinks she can hear just the barest hint of real apprehension underneath the joking self-assurance. 

“That’s easy enough.  We could do two or three pages—we’ll need a photoshoot—and I could—”

“I’d like it to be as simple as possible,” Margaery says.

“If this article is to present you as a responsible businesswoman it’s going to need more than a few blurbs,” says Sansa.

Margaery arches a finely sculpted eyebrow. “I would’ve thought you would want to get back to your regular beat as soon as possible?”

“If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.” Sansa pulls out her phone and opens up her calendar, looking expectantly at Margaery. “Two hours, minimum, not including the photoshoot.”

“One hour.”

“Two hours,” Sansa repeats firmly. “Three would be better.”

Margaery gives her a weighing glance, as though she’s balancing multiple factors in her head. “Fine. Tomorrow at nine, I’ll be here at the office. Bring your bloody photographer.”

“I’ll be asking in depth questions,” Sansa warns her. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else from you, Ms. Stark,” says Margaery, albeit with a smile. A real smile, not the flirtatious one she uses to charm or the tight one she uses to be polite or the blank-eyed one she uses to unnerve. It makes her seem as young as her age, not that much older than Sansa, whose perception of Margaery is skewed by the knowledge of everything she’s lived through and the mystery of those missing years.

“And I wouldn’t expect you to actually make it easy either.” Margaery’s smile pulls even wider at that, taking on a hint of smirk. Seeing her good mood, Sansa begins circling her main concern. “How is…I mean, have you spoken to my father?”

Margaery’s smile fades, but into a rather understanding expression. “Ah. No. I thought it would be best to remain quite unassociated with your father, at least in public.”

“I…” Sansa takes a breath. “I’m sorry for barging into your house the other day.”

Quite unexpectedly, Margaery says, “I’m sorry too.” She very politely ignores the way Sansa’s mouth opens, for which Sansa is grateful. “I overstepped our boundaries. You’re right; I probably wouldn’t have bought the paper if it weren’t for you. I apologize if I made you feel…stifled.”

“That’s one word for it,” Sansa mutters, but without any real rancor. They’ve both apologized and meant it and Sansa suddenly feels much less tense than she was even just this morning. She shrugs. “It’s done. I’m not ungrateful. It was just…”

“I know,” says Margaery, and Sansa can see that she does. They both know what it is to feel out of control of their own lives. They both know how important it is to them to hold tightly to the ground they’ve claimed for themselves.

Sansa looks at her, a long, lingering look she doesn’t feel the need to rush or hide. For a moment she’s not a reporter, and Margaery isn’t such a remote figure, insulated from reality by her money and tragedy and mystery. They’re something like peers, at least until someone knocks on the conference room door and a young man in expensive glasses pokes his head in asking to continue the debriefing.

“Tomorrow then,” says Margaery.

“Tomorrow,” Sansa echoes. And then, because she’s feeling rather bold: “You’d better come prepared.” She slips out without giving Margaery a chance to reply.


	14. Chapter 14

Sansa is extra early for the interview. She’s even at her desk before Luwin, notorious workaholic that he is. She spends her time reading the latest article on the Crakehall trial (dull, too short, not detailed enough) and then revising her question list and maybe glancing over the work her replacement, Alan, left out on his desk. The photographer finds her at eight thirty and they’re outside of the editor’s—Margaery’s—office five minutes later, being told to wait by a very polite, very pretty assistant.

Sansa taps her fingers impatiently on her thigh while she waits, until finally the assistant emerges from Margaery’s office. “Ms. Tyrell will see you now,” he says, as though Sansa isn’t the only thing scheduled for her morning. 

She enters, finding Margaery seated at her desk, reading something with a frown of concentration on her face. “Good morning, Ms. Stark,” she says without looking up from her work. “I would appreciate it if you would give me a few minutes to finish this. Feel free to set up.” Her hand waves vaguely at the other end of the office, where a pair of leather couches and matching chairs are arranged around a glass and metal coffee table.

Sansa takes this time to watch her, wondering if she was this studious at university. That she graduated from the very distinguished poli sci program at Oldtown means nothing with her money, but somehow Sansa believes she spent her time actually working. At the very least no one ever managed to get photos of her partying, and goodness knows they followed her around despite the university banning them from campus.

Soon Margaery flips closed her sheaf of paper and tosses it onto the desk. She stands up, fingers braced on the desktop, and smiles. “Hello,” she says.

“Good morning,” Sansa says, smiling back, but keeping it small and professional. 

They stand in place for a few moments, the photographer putting up his lights and a backdrop as background noise. “How is your mother?” Margaery asks, tone cordial but no less genuine for it.

“Oh. She’s—she’s still asleep. In a coma. But the doctors think she’ll wake up soon.” Sansa hunches her shoulders slightly, uncomfortable discussing her mother with anyone who isn’t family. 

“I called for coffee and tea,” Margaery says, and Sansa is grateful for the change in topic. As if on cue, the assistant comes in, arms full with a large tray containing a coffee press, a teapot under a plain black cozy, and several mugs. He deposits it on the table and backs out, efficient and quiet. Sansa wonders if Margaery hired him specifically for his discretion or if he’s a holdover from the Tribune. Margaery moves over to the couches and takes a seat on one, gesturing.

“Coffee, please,” says Sansa.

So Margaery pours and they both sip coffee in slightly awkward silence while the photographer continues his setup. It’s certainly a change from their last interview in the back of Margaery’s car. Sansa can’t believe her life was ever so uncomplicated, when Margaery was the biggest irritant in her world and organized crime wasn’t a daily part of her life. 

“Ready,” says the photographer, uninterested in anything but getting the shot—precisely why Sansa has always liked working with him.

“I was thinking—” Sansa begins, but Margaery interrupts. Her tone is briskly polite, suggestive but not overbearing.

“Just a headshot, please. Something professional.” 

Which is almost concurrent to what Sansa was going to suggest, but she can see Margaery wants to control this interview as much as possible. Sansa acts as though it’s a concession anyway, hoping it’ll put Margaery more at ease and make her more willing to open up later. The photographer has Margaery pose a few times, adjusting the lighting, and then takes a few photos with her jacket on and a few with her jacket off. Surreptitiously, Sansa inspects the jacket while it’s draped over the arm of her couch, and is unsurprised to find it a bespoke piece with quite a lovely jade green silk lining. She can’t help but stroke it once, only to look up and find Margaery watching her in amusement. Thereafter Sansa keeps her hands to herself.

Finally the photos are over and as he starts packing up, Margaery makes herself comfortable opposite Sansa without bothering to put her jacket back on. She adjusts her shirt cuffs with a neat tug on each and then settles into that unnerving stillness of hers.

Sansa pulls out her digital recorder. “Is this okay? It’s easier to have a conversation if I don’t have to write everything down.”

Margaery nods.

As the little red recording light flicks on, Sansa takes a moment to study Margaery, the very picture of composure. Now that she knows what to look for, deceptively slim lines give way to the dips and bulges of muscle. Even under the sleeves of her button down and her fine wool trousers, Sansa can see she’s well built, and wonders that she never really noticed it before. A combination of good tailoring and simply not bothering to look for such a thing, perhaps. Lots of rich people are built like Valyric athletes; she’d always assumed it was a control and vanity thing but she can’t see Margaery as vain—not very, anyway.

“I’m sitting with Margaery Tyrell, new editor of _The Royal Tribune_ , in her office at the Tribune building,” Sansa dictates for her recorder. “How are you today, Ms. Tyrell?”

“If we’re going to be sitting here for another—” Margaery checks her watch. “Two hours plus, you’d better get used to calling me Margaery.”

“Does anyone call you Marg?” Sansa asks, more for her own edification.

“My mother used to,” she answers, smiling at the memory instead of growing sad, at least outwardly. “And a few friends at university. But now I prefer to go by Margaery in close company.”

“Because you’ve outgrown ‘Marg’?”

“Yes.”

“In what ways?”

“Well, in the literal way. I’m no longer a teenager. And the kind of relationships I had as a teenager that were conducive to the kind of familiarity implied by nicknames are gone.”

“You don’t have any close friends?”

“I do.”

Sansa looks at her expectantly, but Margaery won’t elaborate on her own. She prods. “For example?”

Margaery remains tight-lipped and inscrutable. So much for early concessions. It’s not terribly important, though, so Sansa tries another angle. “All right. Well then tell me about what made you decide to acquire the Tribune.” There’s a pause, because they both know very well at least part of why Margaery bought the paper.

“Ah yes,” Margaery says at last. She seems to sit a little straighter, open up her shoulders a little more. “I’ve been looking for an investment since I returned to King’s Landing. And what better way to re-familiarize myself with the city than through its flagship paper. The Tribune has traditionally done excellent work covering all aspects of life in the city. I hope that we can continue to do so.” And then, much to Sansa’s very great surprise, Margaery breaks down the city by racial and income demographics and varying crime rates within each. She talks about the city itself, its flagging employment rate, its rising gap between upper class and poverty, its overworked justice system. 

“The Tribune will always have an international section to keep its readers informed on what is happening outside of Westeros, but I intend to focus the Tribune more intensely on local news from now on,” she says.

“So…” Sansa’s brain is still trying to absorb all the numbers that Margaery threw at it. She checks her notes. “If you’re worried about the economy, why are you downsizing the paper’s staff?”

Margaery throws more numbers at her: the Tribune’s shrinking circulation, the ad money slowly but surely drying up, the shift to electronic readership. If she’s only been prepping since the sale went through, she’s absorbed an impressive amount of information in a very short time. Sansa never assumed that Margaery was dumb, but somehow she just never quite believed that Margaery could be this _smart_. Shrewd, yes, calculating, definitely. But not such a—

“You’re quite a nerd,” says Sansa, although in an impressed way. 

“As are you,” Margaery says, mirroring her tone. “Is that on the record?”

Sansa is all set to roll her eyes that Margaery has reverted to her default flirtatiousness, but over the past few months familiarity has bred understanding instead of contempt. As if this interview hadn’t made it abundantly clear, the woman keeps very little company, seemingly by design. For whatever reason, probably the obvious ones, she only lets people skim the surface of her personality. The deeper reserves, she’s determined to keep unknowable. “Headline: New Tribune Publisher Insults Her Own Reporter,” Sansa recites sarcastically.

“And here I thought it was a compliment.”

Sansa shifts her back into interview mode. “Are you all right with people seeing you as a nerd?” 

“I don’t think that’s nearly the loaded word it used to be. Where would the world be without nerds anyway?” Margaery smiles to herself at this, as if enjoying a private joke. “Call me a nerd if you like; just don’t call me incompetent or indifferent.” 

The rest of her answers are similarly diplomatic but illuminating. She must have rehearsed, which Sansa finds gratifying. In the end they run just under the two hour limit and Sansa has more than enough for the profile she has in mind. Margaery was mostly cooperative and they haven’t fought once, which Sansa considers an accomplishment in and of itself.

“You know,” Margaery muses, watching Sansa pack everything back in her satchel. “You’re the only interviewer who’s never asked me about my parents.” 

Sansa feels rather stricken on behalf of all reporters everywhere. “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

Margaery shrugs minimally, a suggestion of resignation more than an actual movement. “It’s a basic fact of my life.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to define you. I promise you my profile will concentrate entirely on your future, not your past,” says Sansa. 

At first Margaery seems taken aback by the words; Sansa is prepared to apologize while she finishes stuffing everything in her bag as quickly as she can, but then Margaery gives her a look of clear gratitude. “You’re very kind,” she says, but it comes out as more of a definitive statement than a thank you. 

“I’m…” Sansa tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, not sure what to do with that. “I’ll coordinate with the magazine. The article will be ready for this Sunday. If I have any follow-ups or need to confirm anything I’ll e-mail it to your assistant by nine AM on Friday.”

Margaery stands up, smoothing down her trousers. In the act of standing she reverts back to Ms. Tyrell and an invisible distance grows up between them. Sansa studies her posture, how she pulls on her jacket with smooth efficiency, how she tugs her hair free of the collar with a single practiced movement, trying to discern how she can flip a switch so instantly between personas. She has exquisite physical control. Sansa finds herself straightening her back in unconscious response.

Before she can start heading for the door, Margaery makes a sound like clearing her throat, but not as coarse. “Please give your family my regards. Your father especially.”

Sansa stares at her for a second until the message clicks. “I will,” she says.

“And don’t be a stranger, Ms. Stark. My office is always open to you.”

“You might regret saying that,” Sansa quips, although she’s definitely not above keeping an open invitation like that in her back pocket for when she needs it.

“Oh, almost certainly.”

Margaery walks her to the door and holds it open for her. “Always a pleasure.”

Sansa accidentally brushes her arm as she slips out. It almost makes her pause, as though she should apologize, but she keeps going until she can hear the controlled whisper of the door sealing shut. It’s not like her to get flustered by the rich and beautiful, least of all Margaery Tyrell. She tries not to think too much about it, at least not while she’s on a deadline. She’s not sure she’d like the answer.


End file.
